


Fête

by illwick



Series: Unwind [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Biting, Bondage, Bottom!Sherlock, Bratty Sherlock, Captain John Watson, Caring John, Chair Bondage, Chair Sex, Come as Lube, Come play, Dog Tags, Dom!John, Dry Humping, Edgeplay, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Exhibitionism, Fighting As Foreplay, Forced Orgasm, Forced Submission, Gags, Greedy Sherlock, Gunplay, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Kink Negotiation, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Military Kink, Mirror Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Masturbation, Nipple Play, Oral Fixation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Possessive Behavior, Possessive John, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Prostate Massage, Rough Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Strip Tease, Submission, Subspace, Voyeurism, sub!Sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-25 11:18:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10763184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: Sherlock wants something very specific for his birthday, but John worries it will push their boundaries too far.  Several rounds of enthusiastic experimentation ensue.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, this makes vague references to other works in this series, but it's not essential to have read them. I mean, it's just smut with a lil' backstory.

INCOMING TEXT FROM: Sherlock Holmes  
<22 April 10:18> I've decided what I want for my birthday.

JW  
<10:19> It's not your birthday. Your birthday was months ago.

SH  
<10:19> And you didn't get me anything.

JW  
<10:19> I didn't even know when your birthday was until that day, and only because I deduced it.

SH  
<10:20> It's not my fault you're unobservant. Regardless, I believe I'm owed a rather substantial backlog of birthday gifts.

JW  
<10:20> Is that so? Even though you didn't get me anything for my birthday until this year?

SH  
<10:21> That's not true. I made you that lovely video a few years back, the year I missed your birthday dinner.

<10:26> John?

<10:26> Too soon?

JW  
<10:26> A bit.

SH  
<10:26> Sorry. Are you cross with me?

<10:27> John?

JW  
<10:27> Calm down, I'm with a patient.

SH  
<10:27> Fine. Text me when you're finished, this requires your undivided attention.

JW  
<11:15> Short break between patients. 

SH  
<11:15> Where were we?

JW  
<11:15> You were making some ridiculous list of birthday demands, last I checked?

SH  
<11:15> Quite right. So have you deduced what I want?

JW  
<11:16> It's a game now, is it?

SH  
<11:16> It's always a game.

JW  
<11:16> Right then. Can I start by deducing what I hope you DON'T want?

SH  
<11:16> Seems reasonable.

JW  
<11:17> I hope you don't want dinner at some posh restaurant where I can't pronounce anything on the menu and the sommelier slips you his number and tells you to, "Call him when you're finished messing about with that bit of rough."

SH  
<11:18> That was one time, John, and I believe I got us banned from that establishment for life.

JW  
<11:18> Shame.

SH  
<11:18> Isn't it, just. Rather worth it, though I do miss their conchafina on occasion.

JW  
<11:19> And yet somehow you've soldiered on. Truly an inspiration to the rest of us, you are.

SH  
<11:19> What can I say? I'm a national treasure.

<11:20> John?

<11:20> This is the part where you agree with me.

<11:20> John?

<11:21> John?

<11:22> John

<11:23> John

<11:24> John John John

JW  
<11:26> For Christ's sake, I had a PATIENT show up!  
<11:26> You do realise I'm at work?

SH  
<11:26> Boring.

JW  
<11:26> It was an infected splinter, so yes, for once, you're right. Boring.

SH  
<11:27> I'm ready to hear your next deduction.

JW  
<11:27> I hope you don't want body parts.

SH  
<11:27> Oh really? Because there are several parts of your body that I'd like very much. Shame you're not willing to oblige.

JW  
<11:27> Let me rephrase: I hope you don't want body parts from a cadaver.

SH  
<11:28> The thought counts, but no, not what I'm interested in.

JW  
<11:28> Alright, I've got another patient scheduled in 5 minutes and I'm behind on charts, going to have to cut this short. Sorry to leave you hanging.

SH  
<11:29> But you haven't deduced what I want!

JW  
<11:29> Well luckily it's not even your real birthday, so it seems the timeline isn't exactly pressing.

SH  
<11:29> Fine, if you insist, I'll tell you. But just know that it's cheating.

VOICE MEMO FROM: Sherlock Holmes  
<11:32> MEMO DELIVERED

JW  
<11:35> ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR GODDAMNED MIND I AM AT THE BLOODY OFFICE FOR CHRISTS SAKE

SH  
<11:35> You didn't like my message?

JW  
<11:36> LIKING it is not the problem, Sherlock. The problem is I'm currently locked in the loo with my patient waiting in the lobby while I attempt to resist the urge to wank off in the middle of the damn WORK DAY like some sort of SEX PERVERT

SH  
<11:37> Oh dear. That sounds like a very uncomfortable situation indeed. Shall I pop by to help you rectify it?

JW  
<11:37> DONT YOU FUCKING DARE  
<11:37> YOU ARE GOING TO GET ME FIRED

SH  
<11:37> Fine. You are absolutely no fun and have no idea how to properly treat the birthday boy.

JW  
<11:38> FOR THE MILLIONTH TIME, SHERLOCK, IT IS NOT ACTUALLY YOUR DAMNED BIRTHDAY.

SH  
<11:38> Spoilsport.

JW  
<11:38> PUT THE PHONE AWAY AND STOP TRYING TO GET ME SACKED FOR IMPROPER CONDUCT

SH  
<11:38> Fine. I'll be working on my mold cultures in the kitchen if you need me.

JW  
<11:39> Noted.

JW  
<12:36> We'll need to negotiate this, you know.

SH  
<12:36> Oh, back from your pressing schedule of saving the human race from infected splinters?

JW  
<12:36> Don't sass me, Sherlock, I'm actually hearing you out on this.

SH  
<12:37> Well then. Things getting dull at work?

JW  
<12:37> Lunch break. At Pret.

SH  
<12:37> I see. So you liked my proposal?

JW  
<12:37> I did. But like I said, we need to negotiate this one way ahead of time.

SH  
<12:37> Well it just so happens I'm free now.

JW  
<12:37> You don't want to do this in person?

SH  
<12:38> For this one I think it's actually best we're not in the same room whilst we talk it through, lest we become... distracted. Or perhaps I'm just speaking for myself.

JW  
<12:38> No, you have a point.

SH  
<12:38> Well then.

<12:40> John.

JW  
<12:41> First of all, we're not doing 12 hours. 6 hours, tops.

SH  
<12:41> 10.

JW  
<12:41> 7, plus one hour of aftercare.

SH  
<12:41> Aftercare? You know I don't usually need it. And certainly not an HOUR of it.

JW  
<12:43> But sometimes I do.

SH  
<12:43> Oh. Right.

JW  
<12:43> So 7 plus the aftercare. Agreed?

SH  
<12:43> Agreed.

JW  
<12:43> And I want to practice.

SH  
<12:44> Practice? Why John, that's rather greedy of you.

JW  
<12:44> I'm serious, Sherlock. I want to practice the next time we unwind, with a much shorter timeline, and a much less

<12:45> specific objective.

SH  
<12:45> Fair enough.

JW  
<12:45> Alright then.

SH  
<12:45> Alright then.

JW  
<12:46> Anything you'd like to bring up on your end?

SH  
<12:46> I think I made my objectives rather clear in my voice memo.

JW  
<12:46> That you did.

SH  
<12:46> Did you keep it?

JW  
<12:46> ?

SH  
<12:46> The voice memo?

JW  
<12:47> Hell yes. If you think I won't be putting that in the bank for the next time you ditch me to go out of town, you're not as clever as I thought you were.

SH  
<12:47> Glad to be of service.

JW  
<12:47> Speaking of service

SH  
<12:49> ?

JW  
<12:50> Sorry, got a call from Harry. And now I have to get back to the clinic. I'll be home around 5.

SH  
<12:50> I'll plan on it, Dr. Watson. Seems you have a rather busy schedule today. I hope I can persuade you to see one more patient when you get home.

JW  
<12:51> What seems to be the problem?

SH  
<12:51> Well, I've a rather sore throat, and I can't find any tongue depressors ANYWHERE.

JW  
<12:52> You will be the death of me.

SH  
<12:52> ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is forced to test his own boundaries as he struggles to give Sherlock what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up.

John is nervous. The moment Sherlock's face transforms into the personification of _Eureka!,_ John knows the case is drawing to a close. And his stomach knots up with anxiety.

They'd been at it for eight exhausting days on this case, with little sleep for him and practically none for Sherlock. Normally he'd have been coddling Sherlock the entire time-- pressing him to eat, drink water, perhaps get an hour or two of rest-- but it's a kidnapping case, and time is of the essence. So John has let it all slide.

And it shows. Sherlock looks exceptionally pale and gaunt. He reeks of cigarette smoke, and his eyes are shining with the manic effort to deny the exhaustion that's undoubtedly creeping up on him. His hair is disheveled and his shirt is two--no, three-- days old. It's about the worst John recalls seeing him look (well, when he was sober, at least).

But the pieces have fallen into place and Sherlock has pulled off yet another miracle. Moments later, Lestrade is phoning in, confirming that the kidnapper has been apprehended, and the mother and child in question were safely in custody.

There's a palpable sigh of relief amongst the officers on-call in the situation room at the Yard where he and Sherlock are posted up. As agonizing as the past few days have been for John, he can only imagine what it's been like for the people who _aren't_ used to Sherlock's... unorthodox demeanor. John can barely discern whether they're more relieved that the kidnapper was under arrest, or that they'd be let out of the room with the raving lunatic who'd nearly driven them all to the brink of insanity over the duration of the case.

After a round of polite farewells (well, polite on his part, Sherlock just stands next to the door and glares), John texts Lestrade and lets him know that he and Sherlock are headed home. There's no need for a formal statement this time around, since they'd been working directly with the Yard officers, and John feels almost slightly disappointed that they can't loiter about for just a few more minutes. Just so he can get his head on straight. And figure out exactly how this is going to go down.

John is dreading going home. No, that's not fair-- John is _nervous_ about going home. Because he knows what Sherlock expects from him. What Sherlock needs from him. Sherlock needs them to _unwind_ together tonight.

_Unwinding_ is the term they use for the times when John dominates Sherlock sexually, and it's something they reserve almost exclusively for after cases. Years ago (before he and Sherlock had defined their relationship, before Sherlock fell, before Mary and the rest of it all), it had started out as a way to cope with the post-case adrenaline crash. But since he and Sherlock had rekindled their relationship in recent months and started actually negotiating their sessions more openly, it had become a way of recalibrating the equilibrium between them, a way for both of them to find release in ways they'd previously denied themselves.

And _God,_ it was glorious.

Sure, it was messy and confusing and embarrassing and sometimes hilarious, but it was better than anything John could ever have imagined in his wildest dreams. The fact that he could have it all-- the passionate, reverent love-making shared with a devoted partner AND the wild, animalistic fucking that brought to life even his most twisted fantasies-- he'd never believed he could have both with a single person. And yet he and Sherlock had found each other, and somehow, despite all they'd been through, they'd come together and found a way to make it _work._

And it does _work._ Usually, John has no trepidation about their impending activities as they sit in the back seat of a taxi on the way home from a case, eyes locked and pupils blown wide with lust, the magnetism between them so strong John has to use every ounce of his self-control to restrain himself from taking Sherlock then and there.

But tonight, Sherlock wants to try something new. He'd made his desires staggeringly clear in an obscenely pornographic voice memo (which he'd smugly sent to John in the middle of his shift at the surgery, much to John's indignant dismay), and the scenario he'd laid out made John weak in the knees (and rather stiff in other places). But that specific scenario was a bit too... extreme for a typical session of unwinding. 

So John had done everything right: Just like the suggestions on the _Power Dynamics_ message boards he made a habit of perusing, John didn't deny Sherlock outright or make him feel embarrassed for voicing his desires. Instead, they negotiated the terms down to something a bit less overwhelming. Then John simply suggested they practice, and work up to it. Sherlock had acquiesced. That's exactly how the message boards said it should be done.

But John is still nervous.

And the real crux of John's concern isn't even what Sherlock's asking him to do. It doesn't involve any of their hard limits (like pain play), it doesn't require any inhuman feats of endurance or stamina, and it doesn't even honestly involve anything they haven't done before.

What scares John is that it turns him on _too much._

He knows from the websites he's read about _Power Dynamics_ that it's important for the dominant partner to remain in control of his or her desires throughout the session, since the submissive partner can sometimes slip into a headspace in which they may not think clearly about their limits, or properly express their desires. He knows that although consent is a two-way street in any scenario, it's often in the hands of the dominant partner to ensure that the pre-established boundaries are respected and that nothing gets out of hand.

So even though he and Sherlock have negotiated, this particular scenario appeals to John's most primal urges, and deep down, he worries that he'll lose his focus. That he'll hurt Sherlock. That he'll push him too far. He couldn't carry on doing this if he ever let himself get to that point. If he doesn't stay in control, he'll lose this for them both.

And that would be unacceptable.

This thing between them--it's a precious gift. And John Watson will not let it spoil.

The ride home seems to take half the time it normally does, and before he knows it, they're through the door of the flat and Sherlock is turning to face John expectantly. He's awaiting orders.

John takes a deep breath. He can do this. One step at a time, and he can always stop if he feels himself slipping. But he owes it to them both to give this a try.

"Don't move."

Sherlock stops dead in his tracks to an almost comedic effect, and John has to fight to keep the corners of his mouth from turning up.

He brushes past Sherlock and turns on the lamp in the corner by the fireplace, casting a warm compliment to the light from the streetlamp streaming in through the windows. Then he turns and makes his way to his chair and sits down. Sherlock is still eerily still.

"Strip. Hang your coat by the door. Fold your clothes and leave them on the desk. Make it good for me."

Sherlock slowly turns to face John. His eyes are lowered to the floor in a sign of submission, his long lashes throwing shadows down his impossibly sharp cheekbones. 

Slowly, he reaches up and peels off his Belstaff, then makes his way over to the hook by the door. Then he walks back to the centre of the room as he shrugs his blazer off his shoulders and proceeds to drape it over the desk by the windows, as instructed. He turns to face John, and his eyes flick up to meet his.

"Good. Slowly, now. I'm going to watch."

With trembling hands, Sherlock's fingers make their way to the top button of his shirt, and with a flick, a few more inches of his glorious neck are exposed. John swallows.

Sherlock's fingers perform a slow dance downward, exposing more and more skin with each deft movement, his shirt slowly falling open under John's watchful gaze. He finally releases the last button and shrugs the shirt gracefully off his shoulders and lets it fall effortlessly to the ground.

Christ, John is already achingly hard, and Sherlock's barely got his shirt off. But something about the way his porcelain skin glows with ethereal light in the dim sitting room makes John feel like he can't catch his breath. How many times had he sat in this very chair, years ago, fantasizing about this very thing: having Sherlock at his beck and call, his to control, his to _have,_ and now it's _here,_ and it's _real,_ and it's all so much better than he ever could have known...

He pushes those thoughts from his head and focuses on staying in the moment.

"Gorgeous, Sherlock. You're so beautiful. You did so well today, sweetheart."

Sherlock visibly shivers, trails of gooseflesh protruding across his chest and arms. Praise kink in tact, then, John thinks smugly.

"Carry on, now."

Sherlock steps out of his shoes with more grace than John can wrap his head around, then reaches up to unfasten his belt and trousers. He bends to step out of them with careful, deliberate movements.

And then he's standing there in nothing but his pants and socks, and Christ, on anyone else it would look ridiculous, but on Sherlock, it looks bloody _ravishing._ John resists the urge to stand up and run his hands all over him, but no, _no,_ there would be time for that later. Plenty of time. They have all night.

Sherlock removes his socks, angling himself slightly so that John can catch a glimpse of the swell of his pert cheeks at the border of his pants as he does so (an act which John is fairly certain is not accidental), then stands back to full height for John to inspect. His erection tents the front of his pants obscenely.

He's so stunning yet so vulnerable, and John's heart swells with affection.

"Yes, love. Perfect. Pants off, now."

Sherlock peels them off slowly, shimmying his hips side to side, and then the pants fall to the ground and he is gloriously, breathtakingly nude.

John lets himself just stare, and Sherlock shows no signs of resistance. He allows John to devour him with his eyes, making no move to further the proceedings.

Finally, John nods. Without hesitation, Sherlock bends to collect the pile of clothes on the floor and makes his way to the desk, where he diligently folds them and then places them in a tidy pile. John watches in rapt silence.

Sherlock turns back to face John. His eyes are still downcast, but his cheeks are flushed and his breathing is accelerated--he's all but trembling in anticipation. John smiles to himself.

"Alright, here's what's going to happen. You're going to go clean up in the shower. As always, you have seven minutes exactly, and no touching your cock. When you're finished, you'll meet me back here in the sitting room. There's no need to put on any clothes. Then you're going to drink a glass of water and have a snack-- _did_ I stutter, Sherlock?--and then I have a few nice rewards planned for you. Does that sound alright? You can speak."

"Yes, John."

"Alright, love. Seven minutes."

Sherlock hastily makes his way down the hallway towards the bathroom, and John immediately springs into action. It's surprisingly easy to ignore his arousal when he focuses on the logistics of what he has planned, especially in such a tight timeframe.

He first makes his way to their bedroom, where he collects one thick leather belt off the designated peg in the closet and two of Sherlock's older scarves. Then he turns to the nightstand and rummages through the drawer until his fingers land on the anal plug, and he plucks it from their quickly-expanding array of goods with a satisfied grin. He trudges back down the hallway and deposits his haul on the end table next to his chair. 

Next he hits up the kitchen, grabbing one of the protein bars he's started keeping stocked for times like this. Sherlock _hates_ being told to eat when they're unwinding after a case, but most times it's been days since he's had any real nutrition, and John worries about him engaging in such strenuous physical activity when he's running on nothing but nicotine and caffeine. So he'd done some experimenting and found a cloyingly sweet brand of bar that Sherlock would deign to eat in a pinch (John suspected they appealed immensely to Sherlock's rather sizable sweet tooth, though he'd never admit it) and had started keeping them on hand at all times--even out on cases, if need be. And so far, it had improved Sherlock's regular caloric intake impressively, which made John feel more than just a little bit clever. Last, he fills a glass with water and carries that out to the sitting room as well.

He checks his watch and finds he has about three minutes left. He peels off his jumper and shirt and tosses them into the bedroom, electing to keep his vest on. He enjoys being at least partially dressed while they're unwinding-- the stark contrast to Sherlock's nude form makes him feel more powerful, more in control. 

Last, in a rare moment of foresight, he grabs Sherlock's dressing gown and brings it into the sitting room as well, tossing it haphazardly onto the sofa, then plops down into his chair to wait.

Sherlock emerges moments later.

"Am I late?" His voice is tinged with anxiety, verging on panic, and he's blinking rapidly, as though he's struggling to process the situation.

"No, sweetheart. I just got everything all set a little bit early, so I sat down for a moment. You're fine."

"Oh. Alright then." Sherlock looks visibly relieved. Christ, he must be pretty far gone already if something that minor almost threw him off--John takes this as yet another reminder that he needs to remain completely focused for this; Sherlock is clearly letting himself go entirely. It's up to John to keep them on track.

John stands and squares his shoulders, and he watches as a shiver visibly makes his way up Sherlock's spine. John smiles reassuringly.

"Alright, love. You look gorgeous." He approaches Sherlock and kisses him once, chastely, then steps away. Sherlock whimpers. "Sit down on the sofa for me now."

Sherlock does, and John approaches him and hands him the protein bar and the glass of water.

"I want you to eat this bar and drink this entire glass of water. Chew each bite ten times, and take a drink of water after each one." He'd learned he needed to be somewhat specific with his instructions during this part, after one incident in which Sherlock, apparently intent on just getting on with things, had attempted to down the entire bar in two bites, practically swallowing it whole like a starved python.

Sherlock follows his instructions to a t. John stands over him all the while, just observing, letting his eyes wander over the flat planes and smooth curves of Sherlock's naked physique, feasting himself on the masterpiece before him.

Sherlock completes his task and his eyes snap back up to meet John's expectantly, then go directly to where John's crotch is, right in front of him. It's obvious what he expects John to do. 

But John is not one for routine, and he can't have Sherlock getting complacent. So without fanfare, he reaches down and grabs Sherlock by his hair and pulls him to his feet. Sherlock gasps and staggers slightly, but he doesn't fight.

John leads him to the center of the sitting room, Sherlock swaying slightly, his eyes clouded over with lust. John smiles approvingly then tightens his grip and brings his teeth to Sherlock's neck.

He works him over thoroughly, sucking a chain of love-bites across his entire throat and down the front of his chest. He worries the soft flesh between his teeth mercilessly, then locks his lips down to create relentless suction. His left hand remains in Sherlock's hair, locking him into place, and he lets his right hand maneuver to Sherlock's sensitive nipples, which he begins to flick and pinch.

Sherlock practically goes to pieces before him. He's trembling from head to toe and issuing shy, desperate whimpers that go straight to John's cock. At last, John sinks his teeth into the flesh of Sherlock's shoulder one last time, then steps back, releasing his hold on him entirely.

Sherlock nearly goes to his knees. He sways precariously for a moment but then rights himself, his eyes meeting John's in quiet desperation. John grins at him wolfishly, but he doesn't reach out. Instead, he rakes his eyes over his handiwork, admiring the way the bruises are just starting to bloom across Sherlock's throat, and the way his nipples stand pert and erect, red and slightly swollen from John's ministrations. He looks glorious.

"You're perfect, Sherlock. Beautiful. Fantastic. Amazing. I'm going to make you feel so good, sweetheart."

Sherlock smiles blearily back at him, the dopey grin that's reserved just for moments like this.

John finally lets his gaze drop between Sherlock's legs. He looks agonizingly hard, the head of his cock nearly purple and moistened with a considerable amount of precome. 

"Oh, love, you're aching for it, aren't you?"

"Yes, John." Sherlock's voice is barely a whisper.

"Alright, now. Don't worry. I'm going to take such good care of you. But first, I have to finish what I started. Come with me, now."

Gently he guides Sherlock over to face the fireplace, then he takes him by the wrists and guides each hand to rest on the mantle.

"That's it, love. Spread your legs a bit for me, there we are. Now, I have a bit more work I need to do on your neck before we move on. Can you be good for me?"

"Yes, John."

"Good. Now, I want you to stay here, just like this, and let me finish what I started." With that, he wraps his arms around Sherlock and brings both hands to Sherlock's chest to take his nipples between his fingers, then lowers his teeth and resumes tracking love-bites across the broad expanse of his shoulders and up the back of his neck.

Sherlock is self-conscious about his back, John knows. He hates the scars there, a permanent reminder of the torture he endured in Serbia during those two terrible years they were apart. It breaks John's heart to see the way Sherlock twists from his gaze when they're dressing in the morning, or flinches any time John runs his hand down his back when he's wearing one of his thin t-shirts. He never just wears a sheet around the flat anymore.

So John has taken it upon himself to make Sherlock know that he is _adored,_ that he is _worshipped,_ even the parts of himself that he refuses to accept. John always makes a point to trace soft circles over the scars during foreplay, and he takes care to lave special attention onto the scar tissue with his mouth when he and Sherlock are making love and he's taking him from behind. In those moments, Sherlock doesn't seem to mind.

So as soon as he finishes marring Sherlock's shoulders with love bites, he spends a few minutes kissing and licking his way across his back, observing the way Sherlock stutters and moans each time John's tongue comes into contact with the scar tissue. His efforts on Sherlock's nipples never wane the entire time, and soon Sherlock is panting and beginning to glisten with sweat.

At last, John has mercy, and pulls himself upright. He looks into the mirror above the fireplace at Sherlock's angelic face. His eyes are closed, and his curls are matted to his forehead, his cupid's bow mouth open and panting for breath. John smiles.

"Love, open your eyes. That's it. Look at me. Eyes on me now. Do you want to come?" Sherlock nods. "Alright, then. You've earned it, letting me mark you up like that. You've been so good, Sherlock. Let me be good to you." With that, he steps forward to press the length of his body against Sherlock's back and reaches around to take Sherlock's cock in his hand. He leaves his other hand where it was, lazily twisting the hardened peak of Sherlock's right nipple. Without hesitation, he begins to stroke.

Sherlock lets out a garbled cry and slams his eyes shut. Immediately, John withdraws his hands. "No, sweetheart. I told you to look at me. That's it, open your eyes. I want to watch you fall apart." Sherlock's eyes lock into his through their reflection in the mirror. John nods, then steps back into place and resumes stroking Sherlock's cock, his right hand slowly making his way to the other nipple.

Sherlock cries out again, but he leaves his eyes open, boring into John's with a flaming intensity. He won't last long, John can tell-- the telltale tremors that John's grown to recognize have already begun to make their way across Sherlock's taught abdomen. John redoubles his efforts and focuses on stripping Sherlock's cock in tight, short strokes--just the way he likes it.

"Hnnnnngh." Sherlock has gone non-verbal and is clearly struggling to keep his eyes open, but John knows he won't defy him now.

"Good. So good, sweetheart. Are you going to come for me?"

"Hnngh."

"Alright, love. Go ahead. Eyes on me, now. Don't hide from me. Let me see you. Let me see what I do to you."

He strokes harder, impossibly faster, and plucks Sherlock's nipple with the tips of his nails.

Sherlock lets out a sharp yell and then he's coming, eyes wild and frantic as John watches in rapt fascination, willing himself to commit the unleashed beauty playing out before him to his memory forever. Sherlock's face when he orgasms is like nothing John has ever seen, and to witness it with John's eyes locked into Sherlock's jade-green ones is staggeringly intimate. John can barely breathe himself.

Finally, Sherlock's orgasm recedes, and his eyelids flutter precariously. 

"That was beautiful, Sherlock. You can look away, now. Thank you."

"Mmm." Sherlock leans forward and slumps against the mantle slightly. John withdraws and steps away, trying not to think about what a pain in the arse it will be to clean the come out of the fireplace in the morning. Hell, hardly the worst thing they've had in that fireplace, he reasons.

"Alright. That was very good, Sherlock, but we've got a long ways to go. How are you feeling?"

"Good. I..."

"What is it, love?"

"Could I have some more water?"

"Of course, sweetheart. Come here, sit down." John guides Sherlock over the sofa and helps him sit, then grabs the empty glass off the coffee table and refills it in the kitchen. When he returns, Sherlock is curled up, feet on the sofa and legs pulled tight to his chest, resting his head on his knees.

"Here you go." Sherlock takes the glass and downs it in one go. "More?"

"No, thank you, John."

John smiles at him, then leans down to kiss him deeply. "Sherlock, I want you to know how proud I am of you for asking for that water. You know how important it is to me that you're safe and comfortable when we do this, right?" Sherlock nods. "Asking for water shows me that you trust me to take care of you. And that means so much to me." Sherlock gives him a shy smile, then lowers his head to his knees again and sighs contentedly.

"Do you want to keep going? This was a long case, Sherlock, we can stop now if you're done."

Sherlock's head snaps up, and the expression on his face is nothing short of scandalized. "Don't you dare."

John grins.

"Okay, so here's what comes next. I'm going to get a few things set up while you watch. You're a fairly observant man" --Sherlock snorts-- "so I don't imagine you'll have any trouble deducing what I have planned based on what I'm about to do. If you have any concerns or objections, just let me know, alright?"

"Yes, John."

John takes a deep breath and steadies himself. As wonderful as it was to bring Sherlock such pleasure, a part of it was an excuse to give himself time to get into the right headspace. When they'd started, he'd still felt a bit nervous, but now he feels calm. Collected. Purposeful.

He makes his way over to the end table beside his chair and picks up the two scarves. He turns and loops one through the corner of the metal frame of Sherlock's chair, where the armrest and back connect. He repeats the process on the other corner with the second scarf, then tugs each, ensuring that they're securely fasted to the frame. Once he's satisfied, he turns and grabs the Union Jack pillow and places it on the floor in front of Sherlock's chair. Then he picks up the leather belt and turns to where Sherlock is seated motionless on the couch.

The expression on his face is worth a thousand words. His eyes are locked on John, pupils so dilated his eyes seem black, and he's quivering slightly with anticipation.

"Yes?" John asks, one more time.

"Oh God, yes."

And with that, Sherlock stands and makes his way over to the chair. He turns to face it, then drops gracefully to his knees on top of the Union Jack pillow.

"Good, Sherlock. Good. Now, I'm going to try out what you mentioned before with the belt, alright?"

"Yes, please, John."

"Since you won't be able to talk, I need you to snap your fingers if you want me to stop. If you snap, I'll remove the belt, and you can let me know if you want to stop entirely, or if you need something else. Understood?"

"Yes, John."

"Good. Open up." John moves to stand behind Sherlock where he's facing the chair and uses his right hand to reach around and pry Sherlock's mouth open. "Stay." With that, John takes the leather belt and places it firmly in Sherlock's mouth, then secures it behind his head. He pulls gently, testing the tightness.

"Snap twice if it's okay." Sherlock snaps twice.

"Good. Now down you go." He unceremoniously pushes Sherlock forward, forcing his chest to the seat of his chair. Sherlock goes without protest, letting his cheek press against the leather and issuing a light huff of approval.

John steps around the chair and grabs Sherlock's right wrist, then ties it securely to the scarf that's attached to the back of the chair frame. Sherlock is tall enough that his arm is still bent and loose, the muscles unflexed and relaxed, but it would be near impossible for him to get the leverage to push himself back upright from that position. John squeezes his hand to check for blood flow. Sherlock squeezes back.

John makes his way to the other side of the chair and repeats the process so that Sherlock is fully restrained. At last, he steps back to admire his work.

And _God._ What a work it is. 

Sherlock strains slightly, testing the limits of his bindings. John can't have that--without further delay, he falls to his knees behind Sherlock, pulls his cheeks apart, and leans forward to lick a stripe from his perineum to his sacrum.

Sherlock howls. At least, he tries to howl, but the sound is bitten off by the leather strip in his mouth, and he thrashes in frustration. John grins wickedly to himself and delves back in, pressing his tongue against Sherlock's hole, wetting it thoroughly, then working his way forcefully inside.

He doesn't do this to Sherlock often, and they've certainly never done it while unwinding, but for the life of him, in this moment he can't figure out why. Within minutes Sherlock has completely come apart. John hasn't raised his head to see what state he's in, but from the sounds of things, he's sobbing helplessly, twisting and thrashing against his bindings and issuing shouts of frustration into his unforgiving gag. John is fairly positive he'd be begging if he could.

Satisfied, John removes his left hand from where it had been resting on the pert roundness of Sherlock's cheek and reaches around to his cock. Sure enough, Sherlock is hard again. John almost has a half a mind to be jealous of the man's refractory period, but frankly, the fact that he can bring him to this state twice in the span of half an hour is something for which he frankly feels he deserves some type of official commendation.

Without letting up on the ministrations of his tongue, he begins to jerk Sherlock off in a steady, fast rhythm. Sherlock keens and tries to shy away from the overstimulation, but it only forces him further back onto John's tongue, and he lets out another muffled wail of frustration. With a few final flicks of John's wrist, Sherlock stiffens and goes quiet, his cock twitching in John's hand as he expels his release. John cups his hand around the head of Sherlock's cock, catching as much of his come as he can.

John doesn't wait. The moment Sherlock sags limply into the chair, John pulls back and opens his own fly, fumbling in urgent anticipation. By the time he's finally able to release his cock, he feels like he's about to explode with the urgency of it all. He leans forward and presses his clean hand between Sherlock's shoulder blades, forcing him firmly down into the seat of the chair. With his other hand, he quickly slicks his cock with Sherlock's come, then lines himself up and begins to press inside.

They've only ever done this--have penetrative sex without proper lube--twice, and both times, it had scared John nearly to death. The first time was back before the Fall, when one night Sherlock basically dared him to do it. John had been young and horny and stupid and compulsive then, drunk on desire and tangled in a web of oppressed feelings and secret urges. He'd complied, fucking Sherlock hard and fast over the arm of the sofa after a case with his Belstaff still on. Sherlock had bled a bit, but came like a porn star. John came, but afterwards he was so riddled with guilt that he had wanted to throw up. They'd never spoken about it again.

The second time was a few short months ago, when they somehow forgot to pack any while on a case in Amsterdam, and they were too high on _whatever_ had been in that cake to go out and get some. But John had taken good care of Sherlock that time-- he'd prepped him with his fingers and spit for what felt like an eternity (though that may have been the space cake talking?), and afterwards his careful survey for damage had revealed that there was none. Even so, he was painfully paranoid the entire time they were at it, endless cautionary tales he'd read about in med school flickering through his mind like a slide show. (Again, in retrospect, perhaps having sex at all after imbibing in some of the local Amsterdam delicacies had been a mistake altogether, but they were both gagging for it and their inhibitions were _severely_ lowered--not the ideal circumstances.)

But this--having John take him unprepared--is high on Sherlock's list of kinks. He's made it clear to John, and even though John had expressed his concern from a medical standpoint, Sherlock had remained undeterred. "I know what I like, John," he'd said with a shrug, eyes honest and face open and unashamed. "You don't have to if you don't want to. But sometime I'd really like to try again." And then later he'd sent that _blasted_ voice memo, sending John's imagination into overdrive and... well, here they were.

And it's... tight. And rough. And raw. And frankly a bit on the edge of overstimulating. But John forces himself not to think about that, to let himself relax into the sensation, to feel secure in knowing that he's giving Sherlock something he truly desires.

He narrows his focus and proceeds to plow into Sherlock for all he's worth.

Sherlock screams. It's a damn blessing that it's muffled by the gag, but John is still mildly concerned Mrs. Turner may call the cops. He forces that thought from his mind and continues to thrust into Sherlock hard and fast, his strokes even and relentless. Sherlock's back arches and he strains against his bindings, attempting to pull himself up and away from the onslaught of John's advances, but it's completely futile; he can't get the proper leverage, and John pushes down harder with the hand that's still resting between Sherlock's shoulder blades. 

"No. Down. Be good. Stay still and take it."

Sherlock whimpers but stills. John moves both of his hands to Sherlock's hips and proceeds to plunder him without restraint.

Mercifully for Sherlock, John doesn't last long. Sherlock feels impossibly raw and tight, and within moments, John is coming, pressing further into him with sharp, deliberate thrusts, focusing on forcing his release as deep inside him as possible.

Finally, the aftershocks subside. Without withdrawing, John turns to the end table and grabs the plug, then turns back to slowly pull out of Sherlock, careful to spill as little of his come as possible. He uses his thumb to press back in the little that does escape and check for damage--thankfully, there's none. Then he gently presses the anal plug into Sherlock's glistening hole.

And then it's silent.

Breathtakingly, startlingly silent.

John sits back onto his heels. He realises he's shaking a bit from a strange combination of exertion and anxiety and relief all mixed into one. Sherlock is completely still.

Finally, John gathers the strength to stand and lean over Sherlock, gently pressing back the mess of dark curls matted to his forehead, and he peers down to see his face.

Sherlock's eyes are still closed, and his breathing is coming in short, ragged gasps. The leather of the belt is wet where it meets the edges of his lips, and his teeth remain firmly clamped down around it. He gives no response to John's touch.

John squats down next to the chair, where Sherlock can see his face from his position on the seat. "Sherlock?" Sherlock's eyes open slowly, but they're hazy and unfocused. His lashes are damp and laced with unshed tears. He looks completely wrecked.

"Sherlock, sweetheart, I'm going to need you to check in with me now if you want to keep going." Sherlock's eyes slowly roll up to meet his, but they remain blank and unseeing. He still makes no effort to move.

"Alright. Here's what I need from you, love. Snap twice if you want to stay here and keep going. Snap three times if you want me to let you up to take a short break, but want to continue in a little bit. Snap four times if you're done."

Sherlock heaves a long, shuddering sigh. John is suddenly terrified that he's not going to respond at all-- perhaps he'd retreated into his Mind Palace to escape while John _ravaged_ him so _recklessly_ and _Christ,_ what the _hell_ had he been thinking, letting Sherlock talk him into doing this, as though in _any_ universe it could _possibly_ be a good idea and what had he let himself get talked into, oh _shit--_

But then Sherlock snaps twice. 

It takes John completely by surprise, as if a corpse had suddenly reanimated, and he jumps back slightly.

A slow, lazy smile creeps across Sherlock's features, visible even when distorted by the relentless press of the gag. Then he closes his eyes again, and goes completely lax. He's clearly completely checked out.

John feels himself break out into a grin. "Okay, then. I'm going to leave you here now. I'll be close by, so if you need me, just snap. Do you understand?"

Two snaps.

John pulls himself to his feet and tucks himself back into his trousers and fastens them. Then, as if in a dream, he makes his way to the kitchen and opens the fridge.

Sherlock had been _very_ particular about what was to happen next: John was to ignore him entirely. He didn't wish to be coddled or pampered or acknowledged in any way. He just wanted to be left there.

John didn't question it. He's starting to be able to deduce what it is that Sherlock enjoys so much about being left tied up after being debauched; he seemed to have a particular proclivity for feeling well-used, and John suspects the sensation is intrinsically linked to the pleasure he gets from submission. Being left to marinate in the evidence of John's enjoyment proves that Sherlock submitted properly and provided John with pleasure. He wants to lie still and bask in the physical sensation of that, without John's hovering to distract him. And John respects that--even if he doesn't fully understand it.

So John goes about collecting the fixings for a sandwich from the fridge and deposits them unceremoniously onto the counter. He goes through the motions in something of a fugue state; he's undeniably physically exhausted, but the knowledge that Sherlock is one room over, trussed up and ready for him, makes him feel like he's still buzzing with low-watt arousal. Frankly, making a sandwich is the last thing he wants to be doing.

But he's not a young man any more, and his refractory period is longer than Sherlock's; about an hour, give or take, depending on what they're up to. So he resigns himself to at least 55 minutes of performed normalcy before he can indulge himself again.

He plates the sandwich and fills a glass with water, then wanders back to the sitting room and sinks into his chair, which he swivels to face the television. With an air of nonchalance that in no way reflects his actual mental state, he grabs the remote and starts flipping through the channels.

Mercifully, Jurassic Park is on. It's one of John's favourites, and he finds himself suckered into watching the entire thing every time it's on cable, regardless of how many times he's seen it; it never fails to hold his attention. Well, he supposes to himself, tonight will be the ultimate test.

He does manage to keep his eyes on the telly, but he finds he's hyper aware of Sherlock's presence a few feet away. He can pick out the sound of his breathing even over the roaring creatures on screen, and he has to fight the urge to turn his head every times he sees Sherlock shift slightly out of the corner of his eye. But he's true to his mission; he keeps his eyes glued to the screen, and tries to keep his mind from wandering.

It works for about forty minutes. But eventually he finds he can't keep his focus on the movie. His brain has begun to replay their previous encounter on loop, and his cock twitches as he recalls how tight and perfect Sherlock had felt around him, how warm and smooth his skin had been beneath John's hands, how docile and submissive he had remained, splayed out for John's taking.

John flips the telly off before things get weird; the last thing he wants is to develop a Pavlovian response to dinosaurs that would undoubtedly raise a few concerns in polite society. He swivels his chair to face Sherlock.

Sherlock visibly stiffens.

John doesn't move right away. He lets his eyes rake over Sherlock's prone form, coming to rest on his perfect, plush arse, the two pale globes just begging to be parted and plundered. John undoes is trousers and begins to stroke himself.

He's not subtle about it. He uses plenty of motion, the telltale sound of fabric on fabric in a steady rhythm leaving little to Sherlock's imagination. He parts his lips and sighs. Before him, Sherlock adjusts, spreading his legs slightly and issuing a low, quiet moan.

John doesn't let himself be tempted. He strokes himself to full hardness before slowing. Finally, he falls to his knees behind Sherlock, and lets his hands fall to Sherlock's cheeks, pulling them apart.

Sherlock grunts and strains against his bindings, making a show of attempting to pull away. John grips the back of his neck with one hand and presses him hard into the seat of the chair.

"Enough of that now. There's nowhere to go. You're mine. No need to be coy about it."

Sherlock whimpers and then suddenly shifts again, twisting slightly to the side, causing John's grip on his neck to slip. The moment he's able to raise his torso off the seat of the chair, he shifts all of his weight back as far as he can, arms fully extended above him, and attempts to get his feet back under him.

It's futile, of course. He can't pull far enough back to get the balance he needs to stand; John's placement of the bindings was anything but happenstance in that regard.

Brutally, John grips Sherlock's left shoulder with his right hand and lays his forearm across the entirety of Sherlock's shoulders, shifting onto him with as much weight as he can muster. Sherlock goes down _hard,_ chest hitting the chair seat with a startled grunt. He clearly hadn't expected John to react so quickly.

John knows what Sherlock is doing; he's goading him on, making John _force_ him into submission. It's an important part of this dance that they do, and John respects that there are steps he must follow.

He grabs Sherlock's hair and twists, forcing his head painfully to the side, immobilizing him against the seat cushion of the chair. Sherlock cries out, more out of surprise than pain, and John uses the opportunity to grab the plug with his other hand and pull it out, then stuff two fingers immediately inside. He unerringly finds Sherlock's prostate and presses down in a sharp, staccato motion.

Sherlock howls again, frantically gnashing his teeth against the belt in his mouth, and he attempts to shift his hips forward, away from the ministrations of John's fingers in his arse. Again, it's no use; it only serves to thrust his cock against the leather of the chair, and suddenly his eyes widen with the sensation.

"Oh, I see. I see now. Hard again, are we?"

Sherlock whimpers and wriggles, but John presses down on his prostate once more, and he stills immediately.

"I'm going to need you to come, Sherlock. All of this struggle has got you all tense, and you're too tight to take me in this state." It's a lie, but the flush that spreads from Sherlock's cheeks down his back indicates he hasn't got the wherewithal to notice.

"Get yourself off. Now." He doesn't release his grip on Sherlock's hair where he's forcing him into the cushion, nor does he relent on his assault of Sherlock's prostate. With a meek cry, Sherlock begins to thrust his hips forward, seeking whatever friction he can get against the front of the chair.

It's over quickly; it usually is when John is rough with him like this. In no time at all, he's clenching around John's fingers, issuing a long string of bitten-off cries as he spends himself over the leather.

Finally, he stills once more, and goes lax. His hands hang limply from the bindings around his wrists, and his eyes close entirely.

John sits back on his heels and stares at his fingers. The plug has done the trick; it's kept enough of his come inside Sherlock that there's no need for further preparation. John scissors his fingers experimentally, the feeling of his own come coating them making his stomach do somersaults and his heart beat double time. 

He can't wait any longer. He pulls his fingers out and replaces them quickly with his cock and begins to thrust.

He sets a punishing pace. The struggle has spiked his adrenaline and he's overwhelmed with the urge to _claim_ and _conquer_ and _possess._ He leans forward and begins to run his teeth back over the series of love-bites he left on Sherlock's back, redoubling his efforts on the purpling flesh.

John is a jealous man. He hates that about himself, but somehow, this thing with Sherlock has managed to twist it into something he can accept, if not outright embrace. Claiming Sherlock like this is the highest rush he's ever attained, and it fills him with an almost embarrassing sense of smug pride.

He lets his mind momentarily flit to suitors vanquished: Irene Adler, who had DARED to lay her whip on Sherlock's perfect cheeks and whom had mocked and goaded John, who at the time was still more than a bit sexually confused by his own attraction to Sherlock. Janine, who'd laid her lips on Sherlock, who'd seen him in the BATH, who'd nearly broken John's goddamned heart when he was faced with the reality of losing Sherlock to someone else forever. And every COUNTLESS client and smug waiter and work colleague and random pedestrian on the street who raked their eyes over him, who looked him over like he was available to them, who had the _audacity_ to think they had a chance.

Well, they didn't. Sherlock was _his_ and _his alone._ John is the only one he's ever let see him like this. John is the only one who's ever truly known him. And John's the only one who's ever, EVER fucked him.

With that final thought, John's coming, distantly aware that he's hissing _"Mine, mine,"_ over and over as he does so (which makes him wonder whether he'd been voicing any of his previous thoughts aloud-- God, he hopes not, he and Sherlock have never actually _discussed_ his possessive streak, and he's a bit mortified at what Sherlock would think if he verbally unleashed those thoughts on him in this particular moment). Eventually his orgasm recedes, and John collapses onto Sherlock's back, panting heavily.

He manages to come back to himself and raise himself up to his forearms. He fumbles for the plug and then swiftly withdraws, pausing only momentarily to survey Sherlock for damage.

His rim is red and a bit swollen, but there's no sign of tearing. He's open and gloriously messy, and John moans as runs his fingers through the traces of semen gathered in this most intimate place. 

"God, Sherlock, yes, look at you. So open and gorgeous and full of me. You're taking me so well, sweetheart, being so good..."

Sherlock shivers at the praise and spreads his legs further, encouraging John to continue his enjoyment a bit longer. John lets himself indulge for a few more moments, running his fingers through the slick and gently tracing Sherlock's sensitive rim, but eventually he reluctantly presses the plug back inside, then rolls back to sit down with his back against his chair, legs splayed in front of him, still breathing heavily and sweating profusely. 

He allows himself to stay like that until his breathing returns to normal and his heart rate is (nearly) under control. Sherlock remains motionless, the struggle clearly having taken it out of him during the last round. He's breathing in long, slow sighs, the rise and fall of his back casting beautiful shadows across the scars in the dim lamplight of the room. God, he is perfect.

Finally, John gets to his feet and fastens his trousers again. His legs feel like jelly, but he resolutely grabs the empty water glass off the table and makes his way to the kitchen sink, filling the glass and downing it all in one gulp. He pours a second glass and grabs a straw, then makes his way to the sitting room.

He sets the glass on the mantel and bends over Sherlock, then makes to unfasten the belt where it's secured at the back of Sherlock's head.

Sherlock flinches and immediately tries to shake John's hands away.

"Hey. Hey. None of that now." John cards his fingers reassuringly through Sherlock's hair. "Sweetheart, I need you to hold still for me. You need to drink some water." Sherlock lets out a high whine of irritation. "No. This is non-negotiable. Either we stop now, or you drink this water and then I put your gag back in right away. I promise, it won't be out for more than a minute."

Sherlock heaves an exasperated sigh, and even from this angle, John can see the way he rolls his eyes.

"You are such a _brat,"_ he mutters as he loosens the belt and pulls it, saliva-soaked, from between Sherlock's teeth. "Here I am, being so good to you, giving you everything you want, and all you can do whine like a petulant child." Sherlock turns his head slightly and his eyes finally meet John's in an accusatory glare.

John stares down at him, unblinking. If this is a battle of wills, he is _not_ going to let Sherlock come out on top. It's his job as the dominant partner to push Sherlock into submission if he needs help letting himself go. John won't fail him now, not when he so clearly needs him.

"Is there something you'd like to say to me, Sherlock?"

"Sorry, John." His voice is cracked, and is throat sounds achingly dry.

"That's right."

"May I... May I have the water now, John?"

"Yes, Sherlock, you may."

John retrieves the glass from the mantle and angles the straw down so that it will be easier for Sherlock to reach. With his other hand, he reaches down to help Sherlock raise his head so that he can drink; it's nearly impossible for Sherlock to attain the right angle by himself with the way he's bound to prevent him from getting any leverage.

Sherlock downs the glass in five easy gulps.

"There we are. That's beautiful. So good for me, doing just as I say, letting me take care of you. I'm going to put the belt back, now. Open up."

Sherlock does so, and John slips the leather back between his lips and secures it at the back of his head. Sherlock slumps back against the seat of the chair.

And now comes the difficult part. John collects the empty glass and makes his way back to the kitchen, where he puts the kettle on. As he waits for it to boil, he returns to the living room and wanders over to the record player. He picks out an old jazz album and drops the needle, the dulcet tones filling the hovering silence of the space.

When the kettle whistles, John makes himself a strong cuppa, then returns to the sitting room with his laptop in tow. He puts it on the desk and sits down and flips it open.

He has no idea how he's supposed to do this; to pretend to be--what, working? Blogging? Reading the news? Checking his email? Watching cat videos? and NOT staring at the naked, gagged consulting detective bound and spread not ten feet away from him, drifting off into _wherever_ he goes when John leaves him like this.

But that's what Sherlock had asked for, and by God, John was going to do everything in his power to give it to him.

So John clicks through his emails (not bothering to answer any of them; the idea of attempting to string together a coherent thought in his current state is practically laughable) then opens his browser and peruses the news, eyes glazed and unseeing as he clicks on a few local headlines.

By some miracle, John manages approximately 45 full minutes of feigned nonchalance, during which time he checks out four recommended YouTube videos, watches every new trailer for upcoming films (are they making _anything_ besides superhero movies anymore?), reads the comments section on his blog (full of daft berks, as usual), makes himself a second cuppa and grabs two biscuits to go with it this time (because why not? A man's got to keep his strength up), finally resorting to a long scroll on Facebook during which he surmises that the entire platform has basically become one giant, annoying chain letter from a doting great-aunt.

Eventually, he can't take it anymore. His cock has begun to stir based on his mere _proximity_ to Sherlock, and the knowledge that he's there for the taking at John's leisure is more than his lizard-brain can resist.

John takes a deep breath and closes his laptop. He's going to make this time the closest to what Sherlock specifically requested in his voice memo, and John wants to make sure he's prepared. He glances over to Sherlock's chair. Sherlock is trembling slightly.

John rises to his feet and walks to stand behind him. He rakes his eyes over Sherlock's prone form, drinking in his vulnerable state, letting the heady rush of power wash over him. He can do this.

In one swift movement, he unbuttons his trousers and frees his cock, all while falling to his knees behind Sherlock. Without hesitation, he removes the plug from Sherlock's arse, grabs him by the hips, plunges inside, and begins to piston into him with near-violent urgency.

Sherlock lets out a harsh, ragged shout that the gag does little to impede. John reaches forward with one hand and grabs the loose end of the belt gagging Sherlock and yanks it up, hard, forcing an arch into Sherlock's back as the change in pressure forces him further back onto John's cock.

Sherlock shouts again and begins to struggle. He grips the scarves binding his wrists and pulls his torso forward, unseating John entirely as he attempts to pull himself up using the strength of his arms alone. His legs straighten in their positions splayed out at John's sides, and his feet scrabble against the carpet in a desperate effort to gain traction.

"That is ENOUGH." John uses his Captain Voice. He stays calm and in command; despite Sherlock's best efforts, John knows he has little to no chance of righting himself to the point he could actually escape. John grabs him firmly by the hips (hard enough he's sure it will leave bruises) and yanks him back into position, impaling him in one swift motion. 

Sherlock howls and shakes his head from side to side. John reaches up and twists his fingers into his hair and _pulls._ Sherlock issues a wracked sob and stills, his efforts thoroughly thwarted. HIs arms lose all their tension and droop limply against his restraints.

"I said that's _enough,_ Sherlock. I want you, right here, right now, and I'm going to have you. You're going to take it, because I say you will. Now, be good for me. Let me have you."

Sherlock moans. The tears are flowing freely now, making John's cock harden impossibly further (for reasons John is completely unprepared to dissect--he shoves the thought to the back of his mind). John tightens his fingers in Sherlock's hair and resumes thrusting, reveling in the feeling of the slick slide of his cock in Sherlock's well-used channel.

Without warning, he pulls out entirely for a moment, and Sherlock's body is shudders helplessly, a garbled sob escaping his throat. John hazards a glance at his face; although there are tears streaming from his eyes, his cheeks are flushed, pupils dilated, and the corners of his lips are turned up into a grin around the stretch of the leather. A warm feeling of pride washes over John. He's pushed Sherlock _there,_ into that beautiful, floating oblivion of a place, beyond all pride and pain and sense of self. John's head feels light and his body feels ready to combust with desire. John's gotten them _both_ there.

John shoves back in and angles himself to hit Sherlock's prostate with every thrust. Sherlock arches his back and spreads his legs wider, allowing John to sink even deeper inside. John lets out a long, low moan, then leans forward and sinks his teeth mercilessly into Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock comes, completely untouched. John doesn't see it as much as he _feels_ it, Sherlock suddenly clenching impossibly tight around him, the velvety heat warm and unforgiving. He's screaming, John is distantly aware of that, but he forces himself to focus solely on his assault of his prostate and the sensation of Sherlock's tender flesh between his teeth.

It's fucking transcendent.

After what feels like an eternity, Sherlock's orgasm recedes, and his body goes entirely slack beneath John. John releases his hold on Sherlock's shoulder and pulls himself upright, slowing his thrusts to an achingly sluggish pace.

He lowers his gaze to where he's entering Sherlock, millimeter by millimeter, stretching out his pleasure to a low and steady thrum. He contents himself just to watch for a while as he moves in and out, agonizingly slowly, waiting for Sherlock's breathing to return to a more normal rate.

Finally, it does. John tears his eyes away from Sherlock's hole to rest on his face. His eyes are dazed but but bright with consciousness, and his face has the relaxed, open look that he only gets when John has pushed them to this point.

Christ, John adores him.

He brings himself back into the moment. What comes next is just for him, he knows. Sherlock has submitted entirely; he won't be struggling anymore. John's free to take his pleasure.

He pulls out slowly and gets to his feet. He bends to place his left hand on the metal frame of the chair, then crouches and guides Sherlock's hips to the right height, until he has the proper alignment to push his cock back inside Sherlock while remaining on his feet. He places his right forearm deliberately across the expanse of Sherlock's shoulders and leans into it heavily with as much of his body weight as he can, immobilizing Sherlock entirely.

Sherlock huffs out a small sigh under John's unforgiving weight and closes his eyes. And smiles.

John lets go. He thrusts into Sherlock with everything that he has, this new position allowing him to use all the strength in his legs to force himself even deeper. He revels in the feeling of Sherlock still and pliant beneath him, bent to his will, the sweetest surrender that he will ever know.

And then he's coming yet again, his orgasm stretching on in undulating waves as he empties himself over and over. Below him, Sherlock lets out a contented hum as he feels the palpating heat of John's release filling him even further.

Then it's over. John removes his right arm from Sherlock's back and grabs the back of the chair and pulls himself upright. Strangely self-conscious, he tucks himself back into his trousers and fastens them, then lowers himself slowly to his knees.

He parts Sherlock's cheeks one last time, and if he hadn't just come, the sight that greets him would have brought him all to pieces. 

Sherlock is messy. The plug had done its job beautifully, and the fact he'd used no additional lubricant means everything that he sees there is all _him,_ and the mere thought makes him feel woozy and weak. 

He indulges himself a few moments longer, just looking, not moving. Sherlock clearly understands what John is up to, and he remains blissfully immobile while John looks his fill.

Finally, John rises unsteadily to his feet and makes his way to the kitchen, where he moistens a dish towel and returns to the sitting room. He lowers himself behind Sherlock once more and begins to slowly, carefully clean him up.

Sherlock whimpers at the touch. "Shhh. Shhh, it's alright, love. You did so well for me. I'm so proud of you. I just have to get you cleaned up a bit now, alright? Just relax for me. There we go. Easy now. Just breathe for me."

John cleans Sherlock up as best he can--there will undoubtedly be some residual mess, but nothing that a quick shower won't fix. He slowly unties the bindings around Sherlock's wrists, then loosens the belt and withdraws it from his pliant lips. Then he wraps his arms around Sherlock's chest and pulls him backwards into his lap. Sherlock is unresistant.

John gazes down at him, and Sherlock meets his eyes.

"Hi, there."

"Hello, John."

"Still with me?"

"Mmm. Yes. Barely. Not for much longer. Need sleep."

"Alright, sweetheart. But I'm going to give you a bit of aftercare now, alright? That was part of our deal."

"Yes, John."

"How does a shower sound?"

"Perfect."

So John helps an unsteady Sherlock to his feet and wraps him briskly in his dressing gown and leads him down the hallway. Sherlock sits on the edge of the tub, swaying slightly as John turns the taps and tests the water to make sure it's warm enough. Then he quickly strips and helps Sherlock disrobe, and guides him under the steaming stream.

He washes Sherlock all over with sandalwood soap, his hands working out any knots he feels across Sherlock's back and arms from the strain of being in one position for so long. He parts his cheeks and rinses between them, commending his own restraint at not even attempting another look. Then he helps Sherlock sit at the bottom of the tub while he washes his hair, Sherlock leaning into his touch like an affectionate cat the entire time. 

Once he's finished with Sherlock, he gives himself a perfunctory rinse, then turns off the taps. He towels off Sherlock and wraps him in his dressing gown, then quickly dries himself and guides Sherlock to bed.

Sherlock will sleep for at least 14 hours now, John knows. It's his standard Post-Case Sleep Of the Dead, and John's come to expect it--he knows Sherlock will be utterly useless in the wake of a case, so it usually falls to him to get their lives back in order; make arrangements for Rosie to be returned to them, go to the shops and stock the kitchen, hoover the flat, do the laundry. He knows that some might resent it, but he never has--it's his other way of showing how much he cares for Sherlock. How he'll always take care of him.

Content, he drifts off to sleep, reveling in the reassuring warmth of Sherlock's sated body curled up against his.

John wakes the next morning to the sound of rain against the window and his mobile buzzing. It's a text from Molly, asking if he and Sherlock are back at the flat and if she can bring Rosie by. He turns to check on Sherlock (dead asleep, as predicted), then goes about making preparations for the day.

Sherlock trundles down the hallway nearly eight hours later, looking adorably sleep-mussed and dazed.

"Morning, sleeping beauty."

"Mmmph. Time?"

"Nearly four in the afternoon. You were out for your standard 14."

"Mmm. Right." Sherlock's eyes fall on Rosie, bouncing in John's lap and reaching eagerly towards Sherlock. "Ah, and here's my darling girl! I'm guessing _you_ didn't have a lie-in today?"

"That she did not. Molly brought her by around 9. She napped, though, for a bit."

Sherlock strides across the room and lifts her up to balance on his hip. Rosie reaches up and gleefully grabs his curls with both of her fists, squealing with delight. "Ah, well, I suppose we can't all sleep like champions."

"Sadly not," John acquiesces somewhat mournfully, then makes his way towards the kitchen to put the kettle on, dropping a gentle peck against Sherlock's cheek on the way. When he returns to the sitting room, Sherlock is sitting cross-legged on the floor with Rosie, dumping out the pieces to a wooden puzzle depicting a beehive. Rosie seems intent on sticking each piece into her mouth one by one, and Sherlock is watching with amusement.

John smiles dotingly to himself, then plops onto the sofa and picks up the paper, but he doesn't open it. 

"So, um... how are you feeling?"

"Honestly? Like I've been hit by a lorry." He shifts uncomfortably where he's sitting on the floor. "A startlingly well-endowed lorry."

John barks out a laugh and Sherlock grins up at him, waggling his eyebrows, then returns his attention to the puzzle.

"Kidding aside, though, Sherlock, I should probably look you over at some point here just to make sure everything's in order."

"Strictly for medical purposes, I'm sure, _doctor."_

"Shut up, I'm serious."

"I know, I know. I'll shower in a bit, you can look me over before I hop in. Honestly, my neck looks like I've been mauled and my wrists are a little red, but I'm fairly certain I'm otherwise unharmed."

"Good, good."

The kettle whistles and Join goes to make two strong cups of tea and delivers one to Sherlock, who is watching with a bemused expression as Rosie attempts to hurl the puzzle pieces as far across the room as she can.

"So. Um. Last night. It was... good for you?" John feels like a right prat talking about it, but he knows they need to have something of a post-mortem now that they're not caught up in the heat of the moment.

A smile spreads its way across Sherlock's face. "Yes, John. It was lovely."

"So that's... what you want? There at the end? I was trying to sort of... toe up to what you mentioned in your voice memo." 

"It was _all_ quite nice, really, it always is when we unwind. But yes, that bit at the end... that ticked rather a lot of my boxes. Was it alright for you?"

"Hell yes. I mean, it was... intense, and little overwhelming, but... I guess it usually is, right?"

"Hmmm." Sherlock makes a non-committal sound and proceeds to collect the puzzle pieces and drop them all back in Rosie's lap. Undeterred, she resumes throwing them as far as her pudgy arm allows.

The silence stretches between them for a moment. Finally, Sherlock looks up and meets John's eyes.

"So... if that was the practice run... do you think... do you think you'd want to give me my birthday present?"

John nods slowly, thoughtfully. "Yes. Yes, I think I could... I think I could do that. But...it's a lot, Sherlock, you know that, right?"

"I do. And John, I..." He swallows and averts his eyes, suddenly struggling to find the words. "I know I can be... greedy sometimes, selfish. I ask a lot of you, I know that--"

"Sherlock, it's fine, really--" John attempts to interject, but Sherlock shakes his head and holds up his hand to silence him.

"I don't want to make you do something you don't want to do. I don't want you to be uncomfortable when we're unwinding, _ever._ That's not... that's not what it's about. So if you think you'll be uncomfortable, we don't have to do it. It's just a fantasy. And it can _stay_ a fantasy. Maybe... maybe it's best if it's just... I could _talk_ about it while we're having sex, or something, like... like 'dirty talk,' I've heard that's a thing. That way we don't actually have to... you know, act it out. It can. It doesn't have to. It doesn't."

John smiles down warmly at him. Sherlock looks suddenly small and uncertain and John resists the urge to go wrap him in a giant hug.

"Sherlock, I know that. And remember what I told you a while ago about what we do when we unwind: It's for me as much as it is for you. I love what we do, too. Last night was incredible for me, and I don't want you to doubt that. And I have to be honest with you-- When... when you sent me that voice memo, the things you described... it scared me. Not because I didn't want it, but because I _wanted it too much._ I was scared I couldn't control myself under those circumstances, and that I'd get carried away, that I may hurt you. Does that make sense?"

Sherlock nods cautiously.

"But I think I was able to prove to myself last night that I can handle it and keep my wits about me, even when I'm that incredibly turned on. It was... it was a bit of a test for myself, really, and I passed. I'm ready to move forward now."

A grin breaks out across Sherlock's face. "Good. Good."

They stay like that for a second, grinning stupidly at one another, until the moment is shattered by Rosie, who manages to launch a puzzle piece directly into Sherlock's nose. He yelps, startled, and John bursts out laughing as Sherlock swoops Rosie up and rolls onto his back, holding her aloft as she giggles and squeals with delight.

John lets the perfection of the moment wash over him. Wherever this path they were on may lead them, whatever journey they were on together, they would be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, that escalated quickly. Stay tuned for the real birthday celebration!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock always gets what he wants.

Sherlock is torn. He's on the brink of adding a 244th variety of tobacco ash to his official analysis, but it's difficult to discern conclusively whether it merits its own category. A new street drug, _hink,_ had started making the rounds on London's sprawling underground EDM scene, and it was often smoked in combination with tobacco. Fascinatingly, this altered the chemical makeup of the resulting tobacco ash, causing a variance of nearly 2% from the chemical makeup of the next most similar type of recorded ash. Though could _hink_ ash really be deserving of a categorization of its own, considering that it was merely a derivative of a previously-categorized type of ash, and not one resulting from a new variety of tobacco?

He sighs heavily and rests his forehead against his microscope. Science could be truly maddening sometimes.

Just then, the door to the flat swings open and John strides in. His footsteps indicate that he has Rosie in tow and one--no, two-- bags of groceries draped over his arm. He breezes into the kitchen and plants a firm kiss in Sherlock's hair, plops Rosie into her high chair, and deposits the bags of groceries onto the table. Sherlock doesn't raise his head.

"Rough day?"

"Agonizing."

"Sorry to hear that. I'll just put the groceries away and get dinner started and you can tell me all about it."

"You wouldn't understand. It's to do with ash."

"Ash? Why, you may just be in luck. I happen to be one of the finest connoisseurs of ash in this very city."

Sherlock is annoyed. John's clearly egging him on. "How so?" 

"Well, I know a good piece of ash when I see one. Case and point." He reaches over to ruffle Sherlock's curls, and Sherlock moans into his microscope.

"You're terrible. That was truly awful."

"You love it."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and rises to his feet, tying his dressing gown closed around him. He reaches for the grocery bag closest to him and begins to rummage through it. "Did you get biscuits?"

"I did, and they're even the chocolate ones you like, but before you consume the entire box, would you mind getting Rosie started on dinner?"

Sherlock grumbles half-heartedly but digs a jar of mashed peas out of the bag. He grabs Rosie's bib and spoon and pulls out the chair next to her. She bats her eyes at him adoringly, and he resentfully acknowledges the warm, bubbly feeling in his chest. _Sentiment._ So hateful. Yet so utterly and irritatingly satisfying.

"So my mum's agreed to take Rosie this weekend," John says casually.

"Oh?" Sherlock pauses from making aeroplane noises and scooping peas into Rosie's mouth to glance up at John, who's busied himself putting on a pot of water to boil. "Do we have something on?" He wracks his brain, but for the most part he can't be arsed to remember what day of the week it is, let alone whether he and John have any pressing social engagements.

"I told her we were celebrating your birthday."

"Oh?" He's momentarily confused; it's most certainly not his birthday. But then-- _"Oh."_ A flush begins to creep its way up Sherlock's neck and across his cheeks, a rising heat that has nothing to do with the fond sentimentality he'd been awash with moments before.

"If... if that works with your schedule. You haven't got any cases on, have you?"

"Nothing... um. Not. I." Sherlock has to stop and shake his head, willing his brain to reboot. "No. Nothing pressing. Just the... just the ash."

"Oh. Good." John turns over his shoulder to give him a wink and a lick of his lips, then turns back to the cupboard and proceeds to rummage about for a pan to start the sauce, all with an air of nonchalance that Sherlock simply cannot comprehend.

He's going to... he's going to do it. Give Sherlock what he asked for. Sherlock's mouth feels dry and he's a bit lightheaded. 

"GAH!" Rosie, apparently sick of being ignored, makes a grab for Sherlock's hair and manages to coat a decent section of it with mashed pea. Sherlock curses under his breath.

_"Language,_ Sherlock. She's going to start talking soon, and I'm not going to have your colourful vocabulary rubbing off on her."

Sherlock scoffs. "You're one to talk, you swear like a sailor. And I'll have you know, my working vocabulary is nearly twice that of the average native English-speaker. I'll be a very magnanimous influence on her developing brain, you ought to be thanking me."

"Be that as it may, I'd prefer we keep the lessons a bit more age-appropriate for the time being."

"You hear that, Rosie? Your father's trying to censor me. How bland and utterly _boring."_

"Ock!" Exclaims Rosie delightedly.

Sherlock grins. "Close enough."

"For fuck's sake," John mutters into the pan of heating pasta sauce.

"We heard that!"

Two hours later, Rosie's asleep in her nursery, and Sherlock and John are curled up on the sofa post-meal. John is reading the paper (or at least, attempting to) with Sherlock's head resting in his lap, carding his fingers absentmindedly through his hair. Sherlock is pretending to watch a television programme about capuchin monkeys, but really, his mind hasn't wandered far from the events of the upcoming weekend since John brought it up in the kitchen.

He's nervous. Well, not nervous, exactly, but he's full of a heady kind of excitement that seems to thrum through his veins and ignite every synapse in his brain. How on earth was he supposed to wait until the weekend, knowing what John had in store?

...Come to think of it, what day was it? He needed to start a mental countdown.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"John." Sherlock shifts so that he's lying on his back. Slowly, John raises the paper so that Sherlock can see his face.

"Hello, there."

"What day is it?"

"Thursday."

"Oh. Good."

"Any particular reason you're asking?"

"No, just looking forward to the weekend. TGIW and all."

John lets out a bemused snort. "TGIW?"

"Yes, isn't that what they say? You know how I love weekends. An escape from the daily grind and such. Happy hour on Friday. Brunching with dear friends. Long strolls in Hampstead Heath, taking in the glorious sunshine..." He can't keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

John is outright laughing now, the corners of his eyes crinkled in that way that makes Sherlock's stomach twist with pleasure. He tosses the newspaper onto the coffee table and sits back to stare down at Sherlock fondly.

"Ah, yes. I do know you love your weekends. Hopefully this will be a good one."

Sherlock can't resist anymore. He wraps one hand around the back of John's neck and surges up to press their lips together, unable to suppress the whimper that escapes him as John reciprocates, his mouth open and wet and welcoming. 

Sherlock escalates things quickly, pulling himself into a seated position and twisting up to straddle John, who issues a surprised moan of assent. Before Sherlock knows it, he's got John lying flat on his back on the sofa while Sherlock moves on top of him, undulating his hips in the way he knows drives John absolutely _mad,_ tracing his tongue along the shell of John's left ear. John's hands grip his arse firmly, pulling Sherlock tightly to him as he thrusts their hardness together.

Suddenly, John stills, and Sherlock pulls back to meet his eyes questioningly.

"Christ, Sherlock, I'm close. Bedroom? Or do you want to finish here?"

As much as Sherlock would like to draw this out, he's too far gone already to imagine making it all the way to the bedroom in his current state. He feels hot and sweaty and tight all over. He just needs to _come._

"Here. Here is fine," he babbles, then leans back down to close his teeth over John's earlobe.

John moans wantonly, then reaches between them to fumble with the fly of his own trousers. Sherlock huffs impatiently at the delay, silently commending himself on having the foresight to leave his pajama bottoms on all day (well, of course, he hadn't left them on all day with this specific scenario in mind, it was more he couldn't be arsed to get dressed when he had no reason to, but _still,_ they were _most_ convenient for impromptu sex, _really)._ He pulls them down just enough to free his cock (he didn't put on pants, either-- yet another reason he's a true genius), then after a short eternity, John manages to free his own cock as well. Sherlock lowers his hips back down to rub himself along John's throbbing length, and the room is suddenly filled with the sound of echoing moans.

They don't last more than a few minutes. Sherlock feels John reach between them to take himself in hand, and Sherlock licks his own palm and reaches down to wrap his fingers around his own cock. He raises his hips slightly to give them both room to move, and he pulls his lips away from John's in favor of staring down at him, their eyes locked in an intense gaze.

They jerk themselves off, issuing light moans and breathy sighs, breaking eye contact only momentarily to press a light kiss to the other's lips before pulling away to suck in a much-needed breath. John comes first, his eyes snapping shut and a sharp grunt escaping him as he spends himself into his fist. Sherlock follows nearly immediately after, burying his face in John's neck and issuing a series of high, bitten-off whimpers as he works himself over. The moment he's done, he collapses into the sticky mess between them.

"Mmm." John turns his head and presses a light kiss against Sherlock's sweaty temple. Sherlock is fairly certain he can't move.

Luckily, John doesn't seem to be in a rush either. They lie together until their breathing has returned to normal, Sherlock reveling in the sound of John's heartbeat, strong and steady, beneath where is ear is pressed to John's chest. He thinks it's the most sacred sound he's ever heard.

Eventually John stirs, wriggling beneath Sherlock, and Sherlock lets out an unamused hum.

"Sherlock, you've got to get off me. Can barely breathe under here."

"Breathing is boring."

"Sherlock. You've got 5 seconds before I roll over and toss your arse on the ground, and I won't be helping you up. You'll just have to spend the night there beneath the coffee table."

_"Fine."_ Sherlock reluctantly sits back onto his heels, wincing slightly as he feels the congealing stickiness separate between them. He manages to shuffle backwards on his knees to the point John can pull himself into a sitting position. His shirt and trousers are covered in come, and he lets out a withering sigh as he assesses the damage. 

"Oy. You'd think eventually this part would get less annoying, and yet."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Oh, please. You've grown to enjoy showering before bed."

John nods his head reluctantly. "True enough, but I haven't grown to enjoy the infinite loads of laundry, between having an infant daughter and an insatiable partner."

Sherlock rises to his feet, grimacing as he pulls his damp pajamas bottoms off. "Well, sorry to be such an inconvenience. If you'd like, I can go back to making a better use of my sock index, I'm sure that would reduce the number of laundry loads required."

John rises to his feet and pulls Sherlock in by his waist to plant a firm kiss against his lips. "You wouldn't dare."

"Mmm. No, I wouldn't. I'm afraid I've grown rather accustomed to a certain lifestyle."

With a coy smirk, he picks up his soiled pajama bottoms and trudges down the hallway to shower. He hears a withering sigh-- and then John's footsteps making to follow him.

Sherlock is up composing the next morning as John gets ready to head out the door to work, but instead of his usual quick peck goodbye, John leads Sherlock into the kitchen and has him sit down at the table. John sits down in the seat across from him and solemnly takes his hands.

Sherlock is suddenly nervous. Has John had a change of heart? Does he not want to do this anymore?

But John smiles warmly at him, then takes a deep breath.

"Alright, Sherlock. I have a few important things I'd like for you to do today."

Sherlock is perplexed. "Alright?"

John's face remains serious. "I'd like you to eat a full meal at lunch--there's materials for a sandwich in the fridge, and I'd like you to eat the banana I left out on the counter. I also would like you to drink at least two full glasses of water between now and the time I get home. Is that okay?"

"I suppose?"

"Alright. My mum's picking up Rosie from daycare, so I'll be home straightaway from work. Tonight I'm going to make you dinner and make sure you get some sleep. We aren't going to have sex tonight."

"If you insist."

"Do any of the requests I've made just now for today feel sexual?"

"Um...no?" Sherlock is confused. Why the hell would John think eating a sandwich was sexual?

"Okay, good. I remember that you said before you weren't comfortable engaging in prolonged power play or foreplay when we weren't in an inherently sexual scenario, or when there was a chance you may be interacting with other people. So I just... wanted to make sure that this didn't feel like foreplay to you."

_Oh,_ that makes more sense. When Sherlock had bought John an anal plug to use on him as a gift, they'd had a negotiation in which Sherlock revealed that he wasn't at all comfortable with the idea of John asking him to wear it outside of deliberately designated sexual situations. John was simply making sure he wasn't pushing one of Sherlock's limits by asking him to submit during a time that they weren't having a session.

"I understand that your asking me to eat and hydrate today is a _request_ you're making as my concerned partner, not an _order_ that you're giving me because you're about to dominate me."

John's cheeks flush suddenly, and Sherlock's heart stutters. He realizes that's the first time he's really verbalised what it is that John does to him, and the act clearly catches both of them a little off-guard.

John clears his throat. "Okay, alright then. Good. Good. I'll be home at a little after 5."

Sherlock smiles. "See you then."

The next few hours are absolutely _interminable._

Sherlock returns temporarily to his composing but finds his trail of thought has been insurmountably disrupted, so instead he returns to his tobacco analysis with renewed aplomb. He dresses and makes his way to Regent's Park, where he tracks down Chad, a member of his Homeless Network, and mines him for additional information about _hink._ Chad is cooperative but insists he needs at least 24 hours to do more research (along with a 20 quid downpayment), so Sherlock returns home with a lead, but empty-handed. 

He checks the clock.

10:40.

_10:40?_

How could it only be TEN BLOODY FORTY? Surely at _least_ six hours had passed since John departed, not a mere _two._

Christ, it was going to be a long day.

He makes a half-hearted attempt at doing more research about _hink_ online (futile, and he knows it), then at 11:32 decides he's waited long enough and consumes the banana and sandwich as John requested before downing a glass of water.

11:41.

He's ready to tear his hair out.

SH  
<11:42> John, you need to come home immediately.

JW  
<11:42> Everything alright?

SH  
<11:43> BORED.

JW  
<11:46> Sherlock, we've been over this. I'm at work. You'll be fine. Go work on your ash analysis.

SH  
<11:46> Done.

JW  
<11:46> Did you eat?

SH  
<11:46> Yes.

JW  
<11:47> And how's the water consumption going?

SH  
<11:47> One glass down, one to go.

JW  
<11:48> Why not work on the piece you were composing this morning? It sounded like it was coming along quite beautifully.

SH  
<11:49> I can't stop thinking about sex. And about tomorrow. And about the sex we're having tomorrow.

JW  
<11:49> So go wank off like a normal person.

SH  
<11:49> Is that an order?

JW  
<11:50> Stop it, Sherlock. We're not sexting while I'm at work.

SH  
<11:51> I didn't offer to narrate it to you.

JW  
<11:52> I know that. But I'm not giving you any orders right now, Sherlock. What's happening tomorrow is reserved for tomorrow. We're not starting a session with me at work.   
<11:52> If that's something you want to negotiate in the future, that's fine. But we're not doing it today.

<11:54> Sherlock?

<11:55> Sherlock, are you ignoring me?

<11:57> Great. Very mature.

<12:00> Enjoy your afternoon.  
<12:00> Prick.

Sherlock hurls his mobile across the room in disgust. _Why_ must John be so _agonizingly_ unhelpful? He feels one step away from throwing an epic strop. That would teach John a lesson, how _dare_ he leave him here in this state while--

No.

No, wait.

Sherlock takes a deep breath in through is nose and closes his eyes, willing his mind to slow down.

John had been very clear with him about the timeline, and that their session wouldn't start until tomorrow. John had followed Sherlock's wishes and had deliberately refrained from preemptively giving him orders in a non-sexual situation. John had been very patient and accommodating and had planned the upcoming weekend out to cater to Sherlock's very deepest desire.

And Sherlock was letting himself go into a tailspin. Unacceptable. John deserved better.

So Sherlock takes a few more deep breaths until he feels his fists unclench and his heart rate return to normal. Then he opens his eyes and makes his way over to where his mobile is lying on the floor, luckily unscathed. He pockets it and makes his way out the door, hails a taxi, and heads to Bart's.

SH  
<15:22> I'm sorry.

JW  
<15:23> I accept your apology. Are you feeling better?

SH  
<15:23> Yes, thank you. At Bart's. Molly's letting me assist with a few of the autopsies today. She's rather backed up.

JW  
<15:24> And you're... helping her? Legitimately helping?

SH  
<15:24> Yes, John, I'm perfectly capable of recording accurate autopsy results.

JW  
<15:24> I'm aware of that, I just didn't think...

SH  
<15:26> ?

JW  
<15:27> Never mind.

SH  
<15:27> Did you just text Molly to check in on me?

JW  
<15:27> You're the world's leading consulting detective, you tell me.

SH  
<15:28> I hate you.

JW  
<15:29> Well, I've a few tricks up my sleeve for this weekend that might just change your mind.

SH  
<15:29> Looking forward to it.  
<15:29> Immeasurably.  
<15:29> Captain.

JW  
<15:30> That's enough, you.  
<15:30> See you tonight.

SH  
<15:31> Tonight.

The time actually passes fairly quickly after that. He and Molly make a good team, blazing through their work perfectly in tandem, and Sherlock momentarily entertains the thought that this might have been what his life was like had he decided to pursue a more _pedestrian_ career. Most days the monotony of it seems absolutely hateful to him, but today it's strangely soothing, and Molly seems to enjoy his presence. She's not nervous around him anymore, he notes. It's... nice.

They wrap up their work a bit early and Molly offers to buy him a drink in gratitude for his help, but he graciously declines (who'd have ever thought he'd do anything _graciously?_ John Watson's miracles never cease) and decides to take the Tube home, letting the throngs of commuters silence the buzzing thoughts in his brain.

He walks through the door to find John's already home, poking about in the fridge.

"There you are. Was beginning to think you'd decided to stand me up."

"No, just finished up at the morgue and decided to take the Tube home."

"No worries, we don't have any big plans for tonight. I was thinking I could make spring pea risotto, if you'd like."

Sherlock grins. It's his absolute favourite. He's loved it since the first time John made it (only two weeks after they'd moved in together), and John had noted his preference right away. It's the meal they shared right before the first time they kissed, he recalls, two weeks after the incident with The Woman and Bond Air. And it's the meal John was cooking the first time he told Sherlock he loved him, just a few short months ago. It's a meal that has a meaning for them.

"Sounds lovely. Can I help?"

John opens up a bottle of pinio gris for them to share, then puts Sherlock to work mincing the garlic and zesting the lemon, and they work together in companionable silence.

After a while, John clears his throat.

"So, today. Were you alright?"

Sherlock shakes his head slightly. He's not quite sure how to describe to John what happened, or where things started to go wrong. He knows he should be proud that he managed to get his brain back on track and not devolve into a full-on tantrum, but the fact the spiral had even started was a bit disconcerting.

"I think... I think this is just... new."

John tilts his head thoughtfully and gives the rice a stir.

"What is?"

"Well, I realised this is really... the first time we've... scheduled a session. Before it's always been spontaneous, to a degree. We unwind when a case ends. It's part of that process. It's like... It's like there's a switch in my brain. During a case, it's entirely devoted to taking control of The Work. But the moment the case is over, the switch gets flipped, and I'm ready for you to... do what you do. You know. Dominate me and... and all that." He trails off a bit sheepishly at the end. It still feels strange to talk about these things aloud with John after they'd spent so many years shrouded in silence. He stares intently at the garlic and proceeds to chop it into even infinitesimally smaller pieces.

John nods thoughtfully. "That's true. We have never scheduled a session before. But... you understand why I thought we should plan it ahead, right?"

"Yes, yes, of course. What I'm asking of you... well, I understand objectively that's not something we should do when we're coming down off a case. Even _I_ realise that's a bit much."

John chuckles. "Well, I'm at least glad we're in agreement on that."

"But I think today, that meant my brain didn't know what to do with itself. I didn't have The Work to concentrate on, but I knew we were going to have a session--just not yet. So my brain refused to focus on anything else. I think I wanted to submit but there was nothing to submit _to,_ and I think... I think I just started running circles around myself a bit."

John turns from the stove to face Sherlock and looks him squarely in the eye. "That makes a lot of sense, Sherlock. Thank you for telling me." Sherlock nods. "I think... well, I think how we proceed in the future will depend on how tomorrow goes. If you like something this intense and it's something we need to start scheduling regularly, we can have a negotiation about how to lead up to those sessions. But for tonight... how do you want this to go?"

Sherlock glances around, bewildered. "What do you mean? You said we weren't having sex tonight."

"We're not. I just mean... do you need me to start dominating you now? Not sexually. But in general. Do you want me to be giving you orders? I can start taking care of you now if you need me to."

Sherlock contemplates it for a moment, then shakes his head. "No, but thank you. I think... I think just having you here and keeping me company is enough for now. We can have a normal evening. Well, normal except that I'm going to eat dinner without complaining and drink and entire glass of water and not badger you for sex starting promptly at 9PM."

"Well, that sounds like a rather delightful change of pace."

And it is. Sherlock feels almost blissfully relaxed as the evening progresses. It's a different type of relaxation than he experiences when he submits to John-- it's more a sense of calm purposefulness. His only concern this evening is to enjoy being in John's company. And he does. 

They fall asleep spooned up together, Sherlock wrapped in John's comforting arms.

Sherlock wakes to John pressing a kiss to his forehead.

"Morning, sleepyhead."

"Is it morning? Really? I slept the whole night?"

"That you did. You must have needed it--you've only gotten a few hours this week, after all."

"I suppose?"

John smiles softly at him at him, and cups his face lightly in his hand. "Alright, sweetheart. Here's what we're going to do." 

With those words, a shiver runs up Sherlock's spine. John only calls him 'sweetheart' when they're unwinding. His heart rate picks up, and his mouth feels suddenly dry. Apparently they're starting _now._

"You're going to go brush your teeth and shower and get yourself cleaned up. There's no time limit on your shower today, you can take as long as you like. Don't touch your cock. Once you're finished, you'll put on the clothes I lay out for you and then join me in the kitchen for some breakfast. Alright?"

"Yes, John." 

"Go on, then." Sherlock climbs out of bed and makes his way to the bathroom. He can feel John's eyes raking over him, coming to rest on his prominent erection, which he makes no effort to hide, before coyly closing the bathroom door behind him. He brushes his teeth and turns on the taps and washes himself thoroughly under the hot spray of the shower. 

He's under strict orders not to touch his cock, but he spends extra time on his arse, cleaning himself fastidiously but with deliberate caution so as not to stretch himself and diminish his tautness for John.

This is the first time he's submitted that hasn't been after a case, and it feels _good._ Different, but good. After a case, the adrenaline crash would always send him reeling into this mindset, but today it's a slow, gradual descent. Today isn't about coping with the fallout from a case. Today is just about enjoying what they do together.

Eventually he's satisfied with his level of cleanliness and shuts off the water. Upon pulling back the shower curtain, he discovers John has placed a pair of his silk pajama bottoms and his best dressing gown on the toilet seat. There's no t-shirt shirt or pants provided. Sherlock pulls on the items at hand and makes his way to the kitchen.

John is leaning casually against the counter, still in his sweatpants and t-shirt, buttering a plate of toast. On the table are two steaming mugs of tea and a glass of water, which Sherlock immediately deduces is for him. He hovers uncertainly in the doorframe.

But then John turns and his face lights up like Sherlock hung the bloody moon. "Hello, gorgeous. Have a seat." Sherlock scrambles to comply so quickly his feet nearly go out from under him.

"Whoa, whoa, easy there, sweetheart. No one's rushing. Just relax. I want you to drink that glass of water, and have some tea if you'd like. I'll also need you to eat at least one piece of toast, but you can have more if you want." John places the plate of buttered toast in the centre of the table and then pulls out a chair to join Sherlock. He takes a sip of his own tea and nabs a piece of toast, biting off a corner with gusto. He picks up the newspaper and begins to flip absently through it.

Sherlock is practically vibrating with anticipation, but he wills himself to calm down and concentrates on John's instructions.

In no time, he's finished the water, one and a half pieces of toast, and had three sips of tea. He pushes his plate away.

"I'm finished."

John slowly folds up the paper and sets it aside, and his eyes meet Sherlock's. He's suddenly serious.

"Alright. We're going to begin soon. But I'm going to go over our ground rules first, alright?" Sherlock nods. "I'm not going to hit you. You're going to take breaks when I say that you need to. We have a time limit of seven hours, non-negotiable. If you need to stop at any time, for any reason, you tell me. If you can't speak, snap your fingers. We can pause and resume, if that's what you want, so don't hesitate to stop things because you're worried we can't start back up again. Does that all sound good to you?"

"Yes, John."

"Is there anything else you'd like to add?"

Sherlock swallows. Arousal is coursing through him like molten lava, and he feels like he can barely breathe he's so suffocated with desire. When he speaks, it's no more than a whisper. "Don't... don't hold back."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter COMPLETELY ran away with me. I'm now splitting it into three different installments; the first two are posted now, the third will follow up this week. WHOOPS.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The birthday celebration finally begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do heed the tags on this work; as advertised, the next few chapters feature rough sex. It's pre-negotiated, safe, sane, consensual, and explicitly enjoyed by Sherlock, but if that's not your cup of tea (ahem), now's the time to tap out.

Lightning-fast, John's on his feet, his hand twisted into Sherlock's hair, pulling him brutally sideways. There's no finesse in the movement, but the suddenness of it all catches Sherlock entirely by surprise, and he's on his knees on the floor before his brain can process what hit him. He lets out a startled yelp and for a moment, he's frozen in place.

But then the adrenaline surges through him, hot and urgent, and his muscles coil in anticipation. He's not ready to submit yet. He's ready to _fight._

With a snarl, he grips John's wrist with one hand and and the bend of his elbow with the other, then forces them quickly in diametrically opposed directions. It breaks John's hold on his hair immediately, and Sherlock seizes the opportunity to scramble to his feet, twisting John's arm behind him in an attempt to subjugate him.

But John's fast. Alarmingly so. He twists and ducks easily out of Sherlock's grip and Sherlock stumbles forward at the sudden loss off leverage, then wheels around to face him.

Then there's a strange, suspended moment where for a breath, everything is frozen. Sherlock feels as if every sense is in overdrive, and he's agonizingly aware of every dust mite floating in the sun beams pouring in through the window, every grain of dirt under his bare feet on the kitchen floor, every molecule of air in his heaving lungs, every drop of blood in his racing heart.

His eyes lock into John's. John smiles. And it all disappears.

Sherlock doesn't immediately process how John takes him down. One moment John is grinning at him, face flushed, eyes sparkling with the thrill of the fight. The next, John is behind him, his strong arms clasped across his chest in an unbreakable vice, and his foot hits the back of Sherlock's knee, and then Sherlock is face-down on the sitting room floor, panting heavily, John's weight firm and unrelenting on top of him.

"Down. Now."

Sherlock makes to struggle, but the chemicals coursing through his brain are muddling his thoughts and making it impossible for him to move one way or another. Part of him wants to buck John off, to struggle and scrap, to grapple throughout the whole flat and smash every piece of furniture they own. But an equal part of him wants to go _down,_ wants to _submit,_ wants to let John take over and claim him. It's confusing and arousing and he lets out a frustrated cry.

John takes advantage of his momentary hesitation to redistribute his weight so that he's sitting squarely across Sherlock's hips, preventing Sherlock from gaining any type of leverage with his legs. Then Sherlock feels his arms twisting behind his back and the cool sensation of metal against his wrists, and he hears the light _click_ of handcuffs snapping into place and Jesus _Christ,_ had John had the handcuffs on him this whole time and Sherlock had _missed_ it? He was truly fucking _gone._

John's weight lifts off of him as suddenly as it had appeared, and Sherlock is distantly aware of John yanking him to his feet.

"Up. Let's go."

Sherlock stumbles clumsily down the hallway, steered by John's unrelenting grip on the cuffs, and at last they arrive in the bedroom.

John had stripped the bed down to the plain white bedsheet and a single pillow. Sherlock turns to the bedside table to see an array of belts and scarves lying in a jumbled heap, but before he can make sense of it, John is forcing him face-first onto the bed, where he lands with an undignified moan. Then John's weight is back on him, straddling his hips once again.

Sherlock feels John peel his dressing gown down as far down his arms as it will go, and is momentarily perplexed as to how John plans to get it off around the handcuffs. The question is answered imminently when John suddenly releases the cuff of his left wrist, pulls off the sleeve of the dressing gown, then yanks his arm up above his head towards the bed post, where he secures it with a leather belt. He repeats the process on the other side, then shifts sideways off of Sherlock to stand by the bed.

They're both breathing heavily.

Sherlock is the first to move. He strains against his bindings and lets out a low moan. He's fairly well immobilized; he still has some leverage with his legs free, but his arms are spread to the point that he can't pull his torso upright in the slightest. He lets out a shudder at the sensation of helplessness that washes over him.

He hears John move to the end of the bed, followed by the sensation of his own pajama bottoms being unceremoniously stripped off. Then there's the telltale dip in the bed that indicates John has climbed up and is kneeling between his ankles... The feeling of John's firm hands between his thighs, pressing his legs apart... The sound of John's knees against the sheet as he shuffles upwards to position himself between Sherlock's splayed legs... John's hands on his hips, lifting him slightly, forcing the pillow underneath him.

The friction of the pillow against his cock is the first indication that Sherlock has of exactly how aroused he is--he feels like he's going to go off right then and there, and he lets out a strangled shout.

"No, none of that now." With that, there's the sudden presence of leather between his teeth. John is gagging him with a belt. He lets out a muffled wail.

God, this is good. This is so. Fucking. Good.

He's pulled back to the reality by the soft sound of skin against skin, and he comes to the sudden realisation that John is jerking himself off.

His brain feels like it's in freefall. What was happening? Why was John pleasuring himself? He was supposed to be using Sherlock. _Sherlock_ was supposed to be the one giving him pleasure. He wasn't supposed to... it wasn't supposed to...

Sherlock spreads his legs further and lifts his hips, offering himself up helplessly. He _wants_ this so badly he can taste it, he _wants_ John, with a kind of wild, unmitigated desire that he's never experienced before. He wants to beg, but the gag in his mouth presses mercilessly against his tongue, and all he can do is whimper.

Behind him, John's hand speeds up exponentially, and Sherlock has to fight back tears of disappointment. 

Then John shifts. Sherlock feels his right hand close firmly upon his right arsecheek and pull him open, then John leans forward and forces just the head of his cock gently inside Sherlock's unprepared hole. And comes. 

It's a strangely clinical feeling, the sensation of being filled with semen in the absence of John's cock, but the moment it happens, Sherlock understands what John's done.

Sherlock had been adamant that he wanted John to take him the first time wholly unprepared; no lube, no spit, no fingers, no tongue. He knew that John perceived that act as risky, medically dangerous, and frankly unrealistic. So this was his compromise. His brilliant, thoughtful, _perfect_ compromise.

Sherlock lets out a relieved sob. He hadn't let John down, after all.

He feels John withdraw and hears him walk over to the side of the bed, but he's too paralyzed with arousal to turn his head to see what John's doing. Moments later, he feels the light pressure of the anal plug pushing inside of him. He clenches his teeth around the leather belt as John seats it; it's more uncomfortable than usual on account of the fact that Sherlock's barely been stretched at all, but the burn ebbs and passes quickly. John pushes his finger lightly against it and lets out a contented hum as Sherlock squirms beneath him. 

Suddenly, John's lifting his head, using the belt to turn his face to meet John's steady gaze.

"Alright. That wasn't so bad, now, was it, gorgeous?"

Sherlock whimpers.

"Now if you need me, just yell. I know you've got your gag in, but the flat's not very big, so I'll be able to hear you." He reaches down and presses on the plug again, and Sherlock moans. "Now stay." 

And then John leaves.

Sherlock heaves a ragged breath. The entire encounter has left him feel flayed open, raw, as though every nerve ending is on fire. He's hard, that much he can tell, and he grinds his hips experimentally against the pillow. It's _exquisite,_ but it's _too_ good; he'll come soon if he keeps it up, so he simply issues a few aborted thrusts to take the edge off and then stills. He doesn't want to disappoint John.

Experimentally, he brings his legs closed, reveling in how the sensation makes the press of the plug feel more urgent inside him. He twists his hands in his bindings, noting the way the leather catches against his skin with a beautiful burn. He presses his tongue against the belt in his mouth and notes how the sweet-sour taste floods his tastebuds, earthy and strong. He sighs. He drifts.

He has no idea how much time passes. The next thing he knows, John is in the room, and he startles; he hadn't even registered him coming down the hallway. John makes his way to the foot of the bed again, and issues a non-committal hum.

Sherlock stiffens. He's not sure what exactly John has planned, but he knows he has very limited means to fight it. His legs are free, yes, but the angle at which his arms are spread means he can't lift his torso off the bed more than a few inches. Still, he has to try.

In one smooth motion, he tucks his legs up under himself and rises to his knees, then yanks back against his bindings. The headboard shutters, but it's made of sturdy stock; there's no way it will give in. Sherlock tries to raise himself up as much as he can, but it's no use.

In an instant, John is upon him. The plug is gone and John is pressing into him in a single, ruthless thrust.

The heat is _searing._ Sherlock feels as though he's been split open, John's cock enormous and unforgiving within him. For a moment he fights it; he yanks against the bindings again, attempting to pull himself out of John's grasp, but it's no use; John easily overpowers him, forcing his legs out from under him as he grabs Sherlock by the back of the neck and thrusts his face down into the mattress. And then he begins to move.

It's a brutal, punishing thing. John pulls no punches and Sherlock feels faint with the sensation of being so wickedly claimed. Above him, John is issuing animalistic grunts as he forces himself into Sherlock repeatedly, and Sherlock can't hold back any longer. He cries out.

It only seems to spurn John on. He thrusts impossibly faster, but Sherlock hazily notes that the pain is lessening; the come from their previous encounter has eased John's way, and Sherlock's body is now opening to receive him, slick and tight. Sherlock's screams turn to gasps, and he begins to thrust lightly against the pillow beneath him in time with John's penetrations.

"Yes. Yes, that's it sweetheart. That's it now. Open up for me now." Sherlock rubs his cock against the pillow earnestly, willing his body to relax more. To open more. For John. "Yes. Yes. Don't you dare come." He clenches his teeth around the belt in his mouth and focuses on maintaining his balance at that beautiful tipping point, just before he falls over the cusp and into oblivion.

With a hoarse shout, John comes. Sherlock moans and spreads his legs as far open as he can, allowing John to drive into him in a deep, undulating motion. Finally, John's orgasm recedes. He withdraws and presses the plug inside. And then he's gone.

Sherlock's brain is so flooded with oxytocin that he feels immobilized. The pressure in his groin is a slow, steady throb, but he doesn't bother to thrust against the pillow anymore; he's gone a bit beyond that, into a different state, one where the idea of coming feels rather secondary to everything else he's experiencing.

And it's utterly, breathtakingly beautiful.

Sherlock still hasn't been able to figure out why he is... the way he is. He deduced a while ago that a part of it has to do with the way that John makes him truly _experience_ his transport in a way that nothing else does. But he knows that what he likes is rather beyond the range of normalcy.

And yet... what else should he expect of himself? Or from John? To be bland, pedestrian, _boring?_ To resign himself to a lifetime of monogamous missionary-style sex with the lights off beneath the covers, murmuring terms of endearment in hushed whispers? Sure, he and John sometimes make love like that. But the idea of being with John _only_ like that... well, it's nearly laughable. Sherlock is an antisocial junkie who courts danger to chase a high.

And _John._ John shot a man for Sherlock the first day they met, then giggled at the crime scene. Was it any wonder that they liked to keep things a bit twisted in the bedroom?

He grins to himself, the leather biting into the corners of his lips. He wonders if perhaps John will give him water soon.

He lets himself drift, then comes to when he feels John's hands loosening the belt that's fastened at the back of his head. He withdraws the leather from between Sherlock's chapped lips and replaces it with a straw.

"There you go, sweetheart. Drink up, now." 

Sherlock does so, internally delighting at John's impeccable timing. They are an unbeatable team.

Then the straw disappears and John is loosening the binding around Sherlock's left wrist. Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but the _click_ of a metal handcuff in its place silences him. Then John is leaning over him and releasing his right wrist, then he quickly flips Sherlock onto his back, slips the other cuff through the slot in the headboard, and flicks it shut around his free wrist, immobilizing Sherlock's arms above his head.

It's only then that Sherlock sees what he's wearing.

He's changed into his camo pants, combat boots, and a simple white vest. His dog tags hang nonchalantly around his neck.

Sherlock's heart stops.

This... this hadn't been part of his birthday request. This was so _above and beyond_ what he had even dared to imagine that he feels as though the wind has been knocked out of him. He can't breathe. He can't move.

He finally manages to whisper a single word. _"Captain."_

John stares at him with a level gaze, his eyes unsympathetic. He rakes them over Sherlock's prone form, and Sherlock shutters to think how vulnerable he must look.

John slowly makes his way to the side of the bed, then he reaches down to press his fingers against Sherlock's mouth.

"Open."

Sherlock does so without hesitation.

"Good." John pushes his fingers inside, and Sherlock swirls his tongue around them. They taste of salt and come. It's heaven.

Then John reaches up with his other hand to remove his dog tags from around his neck, and gently replaces his fingers with the metal discs. 

Sherlock nearly comes on the spot. He slams his eyes shut and breathes in heavily through his nose, the image of John in his fatigues suddenly too much for him to process. He wills himself to stay in control as his cock twitches helplessly against his belly, and he hears John issue an exasperated sigh.

"Oh, look at you, sweetheart. So needy. So desperate for it." Sherlock moans. "Open your eyes. Now." Reluctantly, Sherlock does so. "That's better."

John makes his way to the foot of the bed and crawls up onto his knees, parting Sherlock's legs with a firm press against his thighs as he does so. Once in position, he reaches down to unfasten his trousers and pulls out his cock, which he strokes enthusiastically as Sherlock shivers under his gaze. Then he leans forward, withdraws the plug, and plunges inside.

Sherlock is fairly oversensitive at this point. Their last round has left him feeling sore and chafed, and taking John again in such quick succession feels like an unsurmountable challenge. He steels himself internally, and prepares to fight.

Without warning, he draws one of his legs up to his chest and twists it across his body and kicks outwards, catching John square across the chest with his shin. John is immediately unseated, barely catching himself from being thrust backwards off the bed entirely. For a moment he seems stunned, then his eyes narrow and he issues something of a low growl. 

Sherlock turns his head and defiantly spits out the dog tags. John lunges.

The match is startlingly even, considering that Sherlock's arms are bound above his head and he's resigned to remaining horizontal. While John clearly has the advantage in agility and maneuverability in their current situation, Sherlock has the upper hand when it comes to the formidable strength in his legs. The fact that his wrists are handcuffed above his head gives him considerably more flexibility in his movements than he had when John had them bound to opposing bedposts, which allows him to twist and scissor and kick to a greater degree than before. Eventually, he's able to shove John off the bed entirely with a well-aimed kick to the solar plexus, and John is forced to momentarily retreat.

He circles the bed slowly, deliberately, his chest heaving, eyeing Sherlock like a predator would its prey. Sherlock stares back defiantly, _willing_ John to have another go. 

Then John grabs the two discarded leather belts from the bedside table. For one startling, disorienting moment, Sherlock thinks John may whip him, and an icy layer of fear spreads through him that has nothing to do with arousal.

But John (clever, perfect John) would never betray him like that. But he _does_ exploit Sherlock's momentary distractedness to lunge and catch Sherlock's calf in a steady grip, then uses that leverage to bend his thigh back to his chest. He then swiftly wraps a belt around Sherlock's upper thigh and lower shin, locking his leg into a bent position. He secures the belt and steps away, breathing heavily and shaking with exertion and adrenaline.

Sherlock jerks his arms against the limitations of his handcuffs and tries to twist away from John, but it's futile. His right leg is completely immobilized, and his left will be of little use to him on its own; he can still kick, but he can't maintain the type of balanced leverage required to put up a proper fight.

He shivers and lets out a defeated sob.

"That's right. Nowhere to go now. Easy does it."

John makes his way to the other side of the bed in slow, purposeful strides, running the other belt through his hand menacingly. Without further ado, he grabs Sherlock's left angle and forces his thigh up to his chest, bends his knee, and secures his lower shin to his thigh, just as he'd done with the other leg. 

Sherlock is now completely bound, his hands restrained above his head and his legs immobilized with the belts wrapped from thigh to ankle. It's the first time John has ever restrained him entirely, and the feeling is heady, intoxicating. He feels helpless and small but it feels so goddamn good, and he gives a moment of thanks to whatever non-existent deity crossed the wires in his brain to make him want _this._ It's pleasure beyond comparison.

He struggles again half-heartedly as John watches, an unreadable expression on his face. Finally, he seems satisfied, and then leans over to pick up the dog tags from where Sherlock spit them out.

"Now, _darling,_ I gave you these for a reason, and you disrespected me." The way he says 'darling' sends a cold zing up Sherlock's spine; it's full of contempt and dripping with sarcasm. It doesn't feel good. "I don't take kindly to disrespect. Are you going to behave now?"

"Yes." The word feels foreign on his lips, as though he's never spoken before.

"Yes what."

"Yes, _Captain."_

"Much better. I don't put these tags just anywhere, you know," John continues conversationally as he meanders slowly towards the end of the bed. "I only put them on things that belong to me."

"Yes, Captain."

"And do _you_ fall into that category?"

Sherlock feels suddenly dizzy. This is... this is quite something. This is quite _nice._ He likes where this is going. He likes it very much indeed.

" _Yes,_ Captain."

"So if I tell you to hold these tags in your mouth while I fuck you, what are you going to do?"

"Hold them in my mouth while you fuck me, Captain."

"And why would you do that?"

"Because you told me to, and I'm yours."

"That's right. You're mine. _Mine._ And it would do you well not to fucking forget it _ever, ever_ again. I told you, I don't take kindly to being disrespected."

"No, Captain."

"Alright, then. So let's see if you can do better this time."

John crawls back onto the bed and forces Sherlock's jaw open, drops the tags onto his waiting tongue, and then presses his mouth shut. Sherlock moans as he runs his tongue over the metal, the sharp taste overwhelming him and sending waves of arousal to his roiling gut.

John grabs Sherlock's thighs by the belts and pushes them back towards his chest, then lines up his cock and presses inside. Sherlock arches his back at the suddenness of the intrusion, but he doesn't struggle anymore. That's not what John wants.

John lowers Sherlock's legs to his sides and then slowly, experimentally pulls him up onto his lap, penetrating him more deeply, using the belts to control the motion like a pair of reins, and Sherlock gasps at the sensation of the slick slide. John closes his eyes and groans, his head lolling forward. It must be good.

It must be _very_ good, because the next thing Sherlock knows, John is gripping the belts with all his considerable strength and pistoning Sherlock back onto his cock relentlessly. Sherlock keens but keeps the dog tags in place, focusing his attention on running his tongue along the indentations of John's name embossed in the metal and _not_ on the scene playing out before him, lest he come on the spot and ruin everything.

Mercifully, John finishes quickly--and apparently in a very satisfactory fashion, judging by the volume of his euphoric shouts. He pulls out unceremoniously and slips the plug back in with considerably less fumbling than usual, causing Sherlock to smile; they're getting the hang of this.

John releases Sherlock's legs from the belts and rubs them all over, bringing the blood flow back into them. There's a slight sensation of pins and needles but nothing for concern, and Sherlock allows himself to lie back and enjoy John's attentions, suckling absently on his dog tags throughout.

Then John is hovering over him and slipping the dog tags from between his lips, returning the chain to his own neck. Sherlock whimpers at the loss.

"It's alright, sweetheart. You can have them again soon."

Sherlock tries to reply but only succeeds in blinking dazedly up at John.

John smiles at him almost wistfully, then turns and walks out of the room.

Sherlock isn't processing anything anymore. He's floating, completely oblivious, feeling nothing and everything and so beautifully under that nothing can touch him here. It's bliss.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A happy birthday, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut, ahoy! But in all seriousness, as previously mentioned there depictions of consensual rough sex throughout the rest of this fic, as well as a little angst at the end of the chapter.

It's an eternity and a millisecond all at once before John reappears, his comforting weight dipping the mattress beside Sherlock, bringing him reluctantly back to the present.

"Alright, love. Time to take a drink." He cradles Sherlock's head and gently presses a straw between his lips. Sherlock hadn't noticed he was thirsty, but he takes a few enthusiastic gulps before tilting his head back and closing his eyes. John lowers his head back onto the mattress and wipes the matted curls away from his brow.

"You're doing so well, sweetheart. I think you deserve a little reward, don't you?"

Sherlock opens one eye suspiciously, and John smiles down at him.

"Don't worry. You just stay right there. Let me take care of you." John reaches up and pulls off his dog tags, then gently slips the chain over Sherlock's head. The tags come to rest on his sternum, cool and comforting, and he melts into the sensation.

Suddenly, John's hand is on his cock, stroking in a slow, deliberate motion. Sherlock's eyes fly open and he lets out a strangled shout.

He's _shockingly_ oversensitive. He's aware that he's been turned on this entire time, but his cock has been a distant afterthought, a vague concept entirely outside of his immediate realm of desire. But now it feels _persistent,_ it feels _urgent,_ he wants to _come,_ but he remembers specifically telling John that he didn't want to, that he shouldn't let him--

Sherlock arches his back and plants his feet onto the mattress and begins to thrust up into John's fist. John is watching his face with rapt attention, and Sherlock whimpers frantically, trying to convey that he's _close,_ he's so _close--_

And then John's hand is gone and Sherlock is left humping the air helplessly, issuing a forlorn whine as his orgasm recedes gradually. Everything clicks into place in Sherlock's brain. 

John is edging him.

It all makes sense now. Relief washes through him like a tidal wave; he and John have done this plenty before, he knows how to do this. He straightens his legs and takes a few long gulps of air, willing his heart rate to slow as John watches with a disengaged expression on his face. 

No sooner has Sherlock gotten himself under control than John's hand is back on him, and Sherlock desperately fights the urge to let himself surrender to the sensation. Instead, he focuses on remaining completely still, letting John work him over until he can't take it anymore and tenses in preparation of release, only to have John deny him yet again.

Sherlock moans and closes his eyes.

He's not sure how many times John repeats the process--he loses count after four. All he knows is that by the end, he's gritting his teeth and sucking in ragged, aborted breaths, and his cheeks are stained with tears. His feels chilled and oddly queasy, his balls achingly tight, but he forces himself to focus on the sensation of John's dog tags resting on his chest, grounding him, putting him in his place. He would be alright. John would make sure of it.

Then John's thumbs are on his face, gently brushing away the tears, and John is pressing light, reverent kisses against his fluttering eyelids.

"Beautiful. That's beautiful, Sherlock. So lovely. Shhhh, easy now."

Sherlock slowly opens his eyes to meet John's, and John smiles down at him as he climbs onto the bed, parting Sherlock's legs.

He removes the plug and presses his cock in gently this time, and begins to move in slow, unhurried thrusts. Sherlock doesn't have the will to fight or even move; he lets his legs splay open to the sides and sighs, relaxing into the sensation of having John inside him. It's comforting, soothing, and heartbreakingly intimate.

He's still agonizingly aroused, his cock twitching helplessly against his abdomen, but the series of denied orgasms has left him feeling oddly wrung-out.

Just then, John changes his angle slightly and drags himself over Sherlock's prostate. Sherlock gasps and arches, but John just smiles down at him.

"Shhh. Shhh, be good now. Hold on, just a little longer. Almost there."

Sherlock whimpers as John repeats the motion, ratcheting up Sherlock's arousal once more to the point that he feels drops of precome landing on his quivering abdomen.

"Don't come. Hold back, sweetheart. Don't you dare come."

Sherlock puffs out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and shakes his head helplessly from side to side.

"You can do it. You're mine. You belong to me. You'll come when I say you will. And I'm telling you not yet. Hold on. Hold on."

Three more agonizing drags of John's cock across his prostate and John is coming. Sherlock feels the spreading warmth of his release and basks in the way John's eyes cloud over as he loses himself momentarily in the pleasure. John lets out a long, relieved 'Oh' as the waves of pleasure wash over him, finally burying his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck as he finishes.

John stays there for a while, his weight pressing against Sherlock's aching cock, and Sherlock has to apply the utmost restraint to not start thrusting up into him. But instead he remains pliant. Still. _Good._

Eventually John sits up. Sherlock is secretly glad to see that he looks quite wrecked as well; his face is flushed and his hair is mussed, and there's a deep V of sweat forming at the neckline of his vest that indicates John's exerting himself as much as Sherlock is. 

Despite his physical appearance, John's demeanor is all cool confidence as he sits back and places the plug back inside Sherlock. Sherlock barely registers the presence of the plug anymore; every part of him feels so aroused that he almost feels nothing at all.

John rolls off the bed, stands up, and and removes the dog tags from Sherlock's neck, dropping them back around his own. And leaves.

Sherlock drifts.

The next time John enters the room, it's considerably later. If he were in his right mind, Sherlock would be able to deduce exactly how much later by the angle of the light coming in through the bedroom window, by the length of John's gait, or by the stiffness in his own joints caused by his current position.

But Sherlock is not in his right mind. He's not even damned close, and he doesn't regret a second of it.

But he is sore. And stiff. He rolls his shoulders and flexes the muscles in his legs. John throws an unamused glance in his direction as he makes his way around the bed. Something about the withering look on his face irks Sherlock slightly. John should be staring at him _adoringly,_ not glaring at him like he's a belligerent child one step away from a time-out.

John kneels up on the bed and goes to part Sherlock's legs, but Sherlock turns onto his side and lets out an exasperated huff.

There's a long pause.

"What's this?" John's tone is dark and menacing.

"I think you've had enough."

_"What did you just say to me?"_

"I'm sore. I feel like I've been rogered half to death by an entire regiment. You've had me four times already--that's the most I've ever taken you in a single day. So I think perhaps you've had enough."

John barks out a laugh, but there's no sign of the light mirth that usually laces his laughter. It sounds dangerous.

"You think I've had enough? You think that's for you to say?" He chuckles again. "Oh, _darling,_ you're so adorable when you think you can get your way."

"Please, John. I always get my way."

The silence stretches on for what feels like an eternity. Sherlock feels suddenly chilled, and he resists the urge to turn and see the expression on John's face. But he's not ready to relinquish the upper hand just yet.

_"What did you just call me?"_

"John. That _is_ your name, after all, last I checked."

It's the last straw. John is on him in an instant, flipping him face-down into the mattress and jamming his thighs apart with his knees. Sherlock makes to struggle; he grabs the slats of the headboard and pulls himself bodily forward, out of John's grasp, pulling his knees up under him and preparing to twist around. But in that instant John wraps one solid arm around his midriff and with the other hand pulls the plug from between his cheeks, and the next moment he's forcing his way inside of him.

Sherlock contemplates bucking him off, but John is too quick; he uses the leverage from the arm around Sherlock's midriff to twist and pull them both down onto their sides, whereupon John promptly wraps his top leg around Sherlock's thighs and squeezes tightly, locking him into place. 

Sherlock lets out a pained cry, but John doesn't hesitate. He begins to thrust relentlessly. Sherlock stills.

John doesn't relinquish his grip, either with his arm or his leg. He holds Sherlock ruthlessly in position, not giving away even an inch of his advantage. Sherlock moans. John sinks his teeth into the crook of Sherlock's neck. 

Sherlock howls and tenses, then surrenders entirely, letting his entire body go limp.

"Yes, that's it now. Shhh. Shhh." John lightens his grip fractionally, testing Sherlock's submission. Sherlock remains unmoving and wills himself to relax around John's cock. John immediately sinks in deeper.

"Mmmm, that's better." John withdraws his cock temporarily and rolls Sherlock onto his stomach, then reaches for _something_ on the bedside table. Sherlock closes his eyes and heaves a wet sigh. He feels open and exposed without John or the plug inside him, and he shudders to think how debauched he must look, after taking John so many times already...

The _click_ of the handcuffs opening derails his train of thought. Then John is guiding him slowly up onto hands and knees, running his hands reverently over Sherlock's quivering sides. 

"That's it, love. Up you get now. Come here, I want you in my lap, like this." John gently guides him backwards so that John's chest is pressed flush against his back, his legs straddling John's. "Yes, just like that, just how I like it, sweetheart, come on." Sherlock lowers himself back onto John's cock until he's seated backwards in John's lap, and John issues a low hum of approval.

This is one of their favourite positions, even when they're not unwinding. It stimulates both of them in all the right ways, and Sherlock is unsurprised that John is employing it now; he's come four times today already, which for a man of his age is rather impressive, so Sherlock knows he must be chasing the high more aggressively now, seeking more favorable positions. Sherlock hums as John thrusts up experimentally into him.

"Lovely. Lovely. So hot and wet. I'm glad you're being good for me now. But you were still very bad for a moment there, you know that?"

"Mmmm."

"So I can't trust you quite yet." With that, John is snapping one handcuff around Sherlock's left wrist, pulling his arm so that it's behind John's back. Then John pulls his right arm back to meet it, and cuffs his wrists together so that his arms are bound behind John's back, locking him into place, there for John's use, bent to his will.

The position strains his shoulders uncomfortably, but his discomfort is soon forgotten as John begins to move inside of him. John wraps his arms around Sherlock's chest to toy absently with his nipples as he begins to bite his way across Sherlock's shoulders, neck, and upper back. Sherlock lets out a low wail but remains still.

John continues for a long time; Sherlock isn't quite sure how long. His shoulders ache and his cock is swollen and his hole feels raw and his nipples feel hot and his neck feels tender and it's terrible and wonderful all at the same time.

Eventually John's arms lock tight around him and he speeds up his thrusts, chasing his release. When he comes, Sherlock is shouting right along with him, as though the relief pouring from John was his as well, though his own cock remains straining and untended between his legs.

Once John finishes, he presses a damp kiss to the back of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock feels lightheaded as John disentangles them; His body feels heavy, as if he's full of sand. He dimly registers John releasing the handcuffs and pushing him forward, then parting his legs to push the plug back inside. The next thing he knows, he's on his back, his hands are once again cuffed to the headboard above him, and John is hovering over him, his face perilously close.

"I think you've been a bit forgetful, _darling."_

Sherlock is beginning to dislike the word 'darling.'

"I think you've forgotten who you belong to. And it's my fault, really. I was careless. I let you forget. But this time, I won't make that mistake."

He pulls off his dog tags and replaces them around Sherlock's neck. 

"These are going to stay on until I'm done. And only I say when I'm finished. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Captain."

"There we go. Just relax now. Almost done."

"Mmmm."

Sherlock closes his eyes once more.

The soft _snick_ of a metal latch jolts him back to reality an indeterminate length of time later. His eyes flutter open to land on John, who is sitting in the chair by the wardrobe. He's still wearing his fatigues, and he's... he's...

He's cleaning his handgun.

He's paying Sherlock no mind, simply going through the process with practiced precision, eyes focused and hands steady. 

" _Oh! Oh..."_ Sherlock can't help the words falling from his lips.

John's eyes flick up to him for a moment, then he returns his gaze to the project at hand with an air of maddening nonchalance.

Sherlock's cock twitches against his abdomen. Watching John with is gun while wearing his fatigues is making Sherlock feel like his skin is crawling with fire ants. He's had John so many times today, but he wants more, more of _this,_ more of _all of it..._

He clears his throat experimentally. John doesn't react. Slowly, he bends his legs to plant his feet into the mattress, then lets his knees fall open to the sides. It's an offering. A plea.

No reaction.

Frustrated, Sherlock issues a low whine and arches his back, exposing his neck, _willing_ John to drink in his form the way he usually does, the way he _always_ does, if he'd just bloody _look up._

Well, fine. Two can play at this game.

He begins to thrust upwards, undulating his hips in slow strokes, moaning in the deep baritone that he knows goes straight to John's cock.

For a few moments it seems his efforts have been in vain. But then finally, _finally,_ John throws a glance in his direction.

"Everything alright over there?"

"Need you."

"Hmm. I'm busy right now."

"Captain, please."

"Last time I had you, you tried to fight me off. Said you thought perhaps I'd had enough."

_"Please."_

"Are you begging me?"

"Yes, Captain."

"And you'll be good?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Very well. I'll take you again, but you have to wait."

"Hnnngh."

John's eyes return to the gun in his hands, and he resumes polishing it in slow, deliberate strokes.

It's an eternity before he rises. When he does, Sherlock feels as though he's about to vibrate out of his own skin with desire. He parts his legs even further and whines, exposing his neck again.

"Good. That's lovely, sweetheart. I'm going to unlock these cuffs now, alright? This time I want you to take me because you're aching for it and you're begging me to, not because I'm making you. Will you do that for me?"

"Yes, Captain."

John places the gun on the nightstand and unlocks the cuffs, then then bends down to press a gentle kiss to each of Sherlock's wrists before returning his arms to his sides.

"There we go, sweetheart. Lovely, just like that." He crawls up onto the end of the bed and presses Sherlock's thighs back to his chest. "Hold yourself open for me now, love." Sherlock complies, and John removes the plug.

He presses his fingers into Sherlock and drags them slowly in and out, feasting his eyes on the sight before him. "Beautiful. You know you've taken me five times already today? That's more than our previous record."

"Yes, Captain."

John presses against his prostate, and Sherlock's cock twitches and emits a string of precome. "Mmmm." John closes his eyes and heaves a deep breath, then scissors his fingers some more. Sherlock wills himself to relax. "You must be aching for it, sweetheart. So full of me, with no release for yourself."

"Yes, Captain."

"Alright. If you're good for me now and let me have you one more time, I'm going to let you come, alright?"

"Oh God, yes." The idea of coming had been pushed to the deep reaches of Sherlock's mind, but suddenly it's rushing to the forefront in vibrant technicolor. Oh God, to come now would be _marvelous,_ it would be _exquisite,_ it would be _perfect._

A tremor runs through him and he clenches helplessly around John's fingers. John smiles.

Then he unfastens his trousers and pulls out his cock and strokes himself firmly a few times as he stares down at where Sherlock is spread, open and waiting for him. Then he lines himself up and presses inside.

It's a lot. It's too much. The pain is suddenly very real and very present, and Sherlock bites back the sharp shout that threatens to escape him. Yet he wills himself to lean into it, to fall into its embrace, to let it overwhelm him. This is the sweetest surrender he will ever know, the most total escape, the purest form of worship that he has found on this earth. He will now let himself submit entirely.

He pulls his legs open as wide as he can, granting John access to press even deeper inside with a startled cry. There are tears welling up in his eyes, and he allows himself to simply let them fall. He sobs, surrendering his body to John, letting John climb behind the wheel of his transport and steer him directly into a bliss so bright that it's blinding.

Above him, John is clutching the headboard with one hand and thrusting into Sherlock with all of his considerable strength, and he's muttering a rather colourful string of expletives combined with the names of various deities interspersed with Sherlock's. He looks completely gone, his eyes wild and hungry, then slowly the litany transforms into a steady chant of "Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine."

"Yes." Sherlock arches and preens. _"Yours, John, always, only yours, yours, please, yours, always..."_

John releases the headboard and reaches down to grab his dog tags where they lay on Sherlock's chest. He twists them into his fingers and Sherlock is fairly certain he's about to press them into Sherlock's mouth when John suddenly loses his balance and reaches forward desperately. His hand lands across Sherlock's throat.

It's as though someone struck them both with an electric shock. John's eyes fly open and he stills instantly. Sherlock is frozen, paralyzed with a combination of arousal and terror. But he _wants._ Oh God, he _wants._

So he locks his eyes to John's and whispers a single word.

"Yes."

John's fingers tighten just the slightest fraction, and then he _moves,_ thrusting wildly into Sherlock with a reckless abandon. It's all too much and not enough; Sherlock strains to press his neck further into John's grip, not enough to compromise his airflow but just enough to feel helplessly, irrevocably claimed.

They're both making strange, frantic sounds that Sherlock's fairly certain they've not made before. But before he can process it, John's grip is tightening just a hair more and he's locking his eyes into Sherlock's as his other hand wraps around Sherlock's cock and he begins to jerk him roughly.

"Come. Now."

And Sherlock does, without thought or hesitation, his back bowing off the bed, his throat rising into John's hand with a most delicious pressure, and he's coming and coming and he feels like he may never stop. He's sobbing, he's vaguely aware of that, but the sensations coursing through his body are so overwhelming that he can't begin to process his reaction. After being denied for so long, his orgasm feels painful and consuming, as though his whole body is turning inside out.

John works him diligently through it. When he finally starts to come down, he slumps back into the mattress, boneless and spent.

Above him, John relinquishes his hold on both his throat and his cock to grab the headboard once more, and takes him. It's rough and it's violent and it's everything-- _everything--_ Sherlock has ever wanted.

John comes hard, bending Sherlock practically in half, shouting hoarsely as he pumps himself empty into Sherlock's quivering form. John's orgasm seems to drag on forever, through wave after wave of aftershocks, and it feels like an eternity before he stills.

Sherlock's eyes flutter open to find John peering down into his face.

"Oh, God. Oh, God." John is whispering reverently as he stares down at Sherlock. He seems shellshocked and shaken.

"Yes. Yes." It's all Sherlock can think to say. He closes his eyes again.

The next thing he knows, he's being cradled in John's arms, his back resting against John's chest, and John is pressing kisses to his sweat-soaked temple, rocking him gently.

"Mmmm."

"Sweetheart? Are you back with me?"

Sherlock gasps and his lungs burn with the sudden influx of air, as though he's been underwater for a long time.

"Okay, okay, shhh, just breathe. That's it, love. Come on back to me, now, whenever you're ready."

Sherlock turns his head up to meet John's gaze. His eyes are gentle and tinged with concern. Sherlock gives him a watery smile.

"Hello, John."

"Hi there, Sherlock. How are you feeling?"

Sherlock allows himself a full-body stretch, wriggling his toes and flexing his fingers as he arches his back. "I'm... hard?"

"Yeah, you have been since we stopped. I think... I think you were just denied for a really long time, sweetheart, so your body hasn't quite decided it's time to stop yet. I've heard that can happen sometimes. Do you want to try and come, or do you want to see if it'll go away on its own?"

Sherlock shifts experimentally. His erection feels strangely pressing, considering that he just came not too long ago.

"Would you... um..."

"Of course. Just relax now." John reaches down to take Sherlock's cock gently in his hand and begins to stroke him. As he does so, he presses a trail of soft kisses down Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock sighs and leans into the sensation. John works him over diligently but with a gentle finesse absent from their previous encounters. In no time, Sherlock can feel the beginnings of his orgasm coiling tightly in his abdomen.

"Oh. _John."_

"That's it, sweetheart. Just relax now. Let it happen. Shhh."

Sherlock grunts and comes. Unlike his previous orgasm, which had been sharp and painful, this one washes over him in soft, slow, satisfying waves. He rides out the tremors as John strokes him, whispering sweet praises in his ear, and he shivers with intoxicating pleasure.

Finally it subsides, and he notes with satisfaction that this time, his erection is waning.

He slumps contentedly into John's arms.

"Gorgeous. So beautiful. So good for me, love. Here, sip this water now. Just like that. Perfect."

They rest for a while, but gradually John begins to stir. Sherlock grunts in protest.

"We need to get you showered. I can't let you fall asleep like this, sweetheart."

The challenge of making it to the bathroom seems unsurmountable, but John gently cajoles him to his feet. The moment he rises out of the bed, he stumbles, John barely catching him before he goes down. John murmurs vague words of encouragement into Sherlock's ear as he guides him to the bathroom, where Sherlock makes to sit down on the toilet seat to wait for the water to heat, but John catches him.

"Love, no, just stay standing if you can. Lean against the wall if you need to."

"Why?" His voice sounds whiney even in his own ears.

"You're... um, you're a bit messy right now, Sherlock. I don't... I don't think we want to be... getting that everywhere."

It's only then that he registers the feeling of wetness between his cheeks and down his thighs. The sensation is overwhelming, and he suddenly feels obscenely loose and open, and he shivers with embarrassment.

"I'm... I'm sorry, John, I'm sorry, I'm..." He suddenly finds that he's fighting back tears that seem to have welled up out of nowhere.

"No, no, sweetheart! Don't apologize. You look beautiful like this. You're so beautiful, you know that?"

Sherlock shakes his head. He's still shivering. John rises to stand in front of Sherlock and tips his chin up to look him straight in the eyes. 

"Sherlock, right now, you are full of me. Of _me._ Do you know how ridiculously sexy that is? It turns me on _so much_ to have you like this." Sherlock can feel the corners of his mouth turning up into a smile. "See? That's not so bad. You're mine, and this is just a part of that. Alright?"

Sherlock nods, a feeling of relief washing through him. He leans back against the wall, and John turns back to the shower to adjust the taps.

The next thing he knows, he's seated on the floor of the bathtub, the hot spray soothing his aching muscles. John is soaping his back with his favourite sandalwood soap, his hands firm and comforting. Sherlock hums contentedly, and John presses a fond kiss onto the top of his head.

Then the earthy scent of eucalyptus fills the air, and John's fingers are in his hair, shampooing his locks with a gentle caress. He drags his fingers gently across Sherlock's scalp, and for a moment, Sherlock is transported to another time and place entirely.

He's 19 years old, in Uni, and he's with a boy who wasn't kind. The boy would be rough with Sherlock--pull his hair, shove him down--and laugh when Sherlock got hard from it. He'd call him dirty names-- _whore, slut, filth, slag--_ and use Sherlock for his mouth, his hands. Behind closed doors he'd tell Sherlock he was special, he was good, then in the hallways and lecture halls he'd barely tolerate a spoken word or a subtle glance. 

And Sherlock had assumed that was all he was worth. That whatever was twisted up inside him to make him this way meant that this was all he could be. And so year after year, boy after man, it was all the same; an endless stream of _"freak"s_ and _"faggot"s_ and secret rendez-vous and anonymous encounters until finally once he had the willpower to leave the drugs behind, he decided it was best to leave all of this in the past, too. Sentiment was a weakness. His body was transport. He would never, ever allow himself to need _anyone._

And now he was here, at the feet of a man who _loved_ him, who would move heaven and earth to cater to even his darkest and most twisted desires, yet still called him _sweetheart_ and _love_ and made him spring pea risotto and endless cups of tea, and in a crowded room full of their colleagues and peers would announce to all the world that Sherlock was _brilliant_ and _amazing_ and _fantastic_ and would beam at him like he was the light of his life, who trusted Sherlock to raise his _daughter_ with him, who trusted Sherlock with his _heart._

"Love, I need you to talk to me, alright? Are you hurt? I need to know if you're hurting somewhere."

Sherlock blinks the streams of shower water and shampoo out of his eyes and realizes he's crying. No, not crying, _sobbing,_ deep, heaving sobs that clench his stomach and paralyze his lungs. John is crouched over him, turning his face to meet his eyes, his brow furrowed in concern.

Sherlock wills himself to communicate, and manages to shake his head, slowly. "No, no, not hurt. 'Mokay."

"Okay, but sweetheart, this doesn't seem okay. Can you tell me why you're crying?"

"So... I'm so... I'm... happy. This is happy." It's an obscene simplification of what he's feeling, but it's the only word he trusts himself to get out.

John nods slowly, but seems unconvinced. Sherlock struggles to find a way to say what he means, but he can't stop crying long enough to form a sentence. Instead, he just reiterates what he said before.

_"Happy._ 'Sokay, John, 'mokay, happy."

John purses his lips but finally resumes rinsing the shampoo from Sherlock's hair.

"Okay, just relax then, love."

"'Msorry, I don't know why... why I'm... I'm sorry, can't stop..."

"Shhh, it's alright. You remember how I told you I've read a few websites with information about the types of things that we do together?"

Sherlock nods reluctantly.

"They did mention that occasionally this can happen. Sometimes after a really intense session, there's a lot of tension that's released, and people react to that feeling of relief differently. And sometimes that means tears. So this is totally normal, sweetheart. Just let yourself go."

Sherlock lets out another sob, but nods. "Yes, John. Relief."

"Okay, good, alright then. That's good. Just let it be."

Sherlock goes though the next series of motions in a daze. He registers that John has turned the water off and is guiding him to his feet and toweling him off, and the next thing he knows, they're side by side in bed. The sheets are clean and the pillows are back, but he doesn't remember any of that happening. John is running his hands up and down Sherlock's back and pressing gentle kisses against his face. Sherlock's tears are gradually subsiding.

"There we are. Easy now. Shhh, easy."

Sherlock hums and closes his eyes.

He feels almost as if he's dozing off, but it's a dreamy, half-waking state. When he finally comes back to himself, he's lying on his stomach, and John's hands are gently working the knots out of the muscles in his shoulders, down his arms, across his back, into his hips, and down his spine. He moans.

"Is this feeling good, sweetheart?"

"Yes. God, yes."

"Alright. Good. Just relax."

John's hands continue to work over him with practiced precision, soothing the aches resulting from their previous activities. By the time John's finished, Sherlock feels completely pliant and sated.

"You with me, love?" John cards his fingers through the tangled curls of Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock opens his eyes and smiles. "Yes, John."

John is peering down at him adoringly, and Sherlock delights in the affection radiating from his gaze.

"I'd like you to get a little sleep now, just to reset everything. Does that sound good?"

"Yes."

"Alright. I'll stay here with you while you sleep, and if you want anything, you just wake me, alright?"

"Yes, John." He rolls to press himself against John's chest, and John wraps his arms around him, holding his close.

"Beautiful. That's beautiful, love. You did so well. You were so good for me. Rest, now. Just rest."

And he does.

When he wakes, his head feels clear and his body relaxed. There's golden evening sunlight streaming in through the bedroom window, and he deduces it's around 6 in the evening. John is still next to him, snoring quietly.

Which is unacceptable, because Sherlock is _ravenous._

He guides his foot to John's calf and begins to move his toes up and down experimentally. John wakes almost immediately with a startled gasp. Once he registers Sherlock's eyes gazing back into his, his expression softens into a warm smile.

"Hey, there. How are you feeling?"

"Hungry."

"Mmmm. Alright, then, just give me a second to wake up."

"No. Hungry now."

John narrows his eyes. "So I see you're back in the land of the living, if you're feeling up to making demands."

"Yes. I want food. Now."

John rolls his eyes good-naturedly and reaches over Sherlock for the nightstand, where he procures his mobile. "Thai food alright?"

"Pad thai. Potstickers. Spring rolls."

"Just for you? You weren't kidding when you said you were hungry."

"Why would I joke about hunger? How is that funny?"

John chuckles. "Fair point." He dials the Thai place down the street and places their order, adding some prawn fried rice and steamed broccoli for himself while Sherlock stares at him with rapt attention. Finally, after a thoroughly unacceptable length of time, he hangs up.

"So?"

"So...what?"

"How long?"

"Good grief, Sherlock. If you're that famished, I'll go get you a protein bar in the meantime."

Sherlock considers it. "No, I'll wait."

"Alright, then. I am going to go get you some water, though. And would you like tea?"

"Yes."

John eyes him warily. Sherlock sighs.

"Yes, please, John, if you'd be so kind."

"That's more like it." He leans in and gives Sherlock a quick peck on the cheek then climbs out of bed, wraps his dressing gown around himself, and plods down the hallway to the kitchen.

Sherlock sits up and winces. The events of the day feel like hazy, distant memories, but the ache inside of him is real and present, demanding his attention. He shifts slightly. He doesn't feel injured, just sore, and still a bit wet--he imagines the shower didn't take care of everything in one go. Moaning, he rolls onto his side and curls up and waits impatiently for John to return.

Which he does, moments later, carrying two steaming mugs of tea and a glass of water. He assesses Sherlock's current body language--in a fetal position, lips tight, taking in short breaths through his nose--and immediately puts the the cups on the nightstand and squats down to look Sherlock in the eye.

"Feeling it a bit?"

Sherlock nods wordlessly. He suddenly doesn't feel much like talking.

"Alright. Can you roll onto your stomach for me? I want to just check you out and make sure you're not injured. I didn't notice anything in the shower, but this will give us peace of mind."

Sherlock huffs a reluctant sigh but complies. With infinite gentleness, John parts his cheeks. 

"I'm going to touch you now, just a little bit, to check things over. Is that okay? It may sting a bit."

Sherlock nods and turns his face into the pillow to let out a soft whimper. 

John parts his cheeks further and then dips the tip of one of his fingers inside and traces his rim, checking for any sides of tearing. Sherlock fights back tears--he feels impossibly sensitive, this _hurts,_ he wants it to _stop--_

And just like that, it's over; John withdraws his finger and presses a kiss in between Sherlock's shoulder blades.

"Alright, all done. Everything looks fine, Sherlock. I mean, you're obviously... um, you're going to be sore for a while, but medically, there's nothing to worry about."

Sherlock rolls onto his side and sits up, pulling his knees to his chest to rest his head on them. John sits down on the bed next to him and hands him a cup of tea, which Sherlock cradles in his hands, letting the warmth spread through him. He doesn't drink any yet.

John reaches out and runs his hand up and down Sherlock's back reassuringly. They sit like that in companionable silence for a while, until Sherlock feels ready to reengage. He lifts his head and brings the cup of tea slowly to his lips.

John reaches for his own cup of tea, and smiles at Sherlock through the rising steam.

"So. Are you... doing okay? Not physically, but... with everything else?"

Sherlock nods slowly. "Yes. I feel... good, John. Really good."

John's face lights up. "So that was what you wanted, then?"

He looks so pleased with himself that Sherlock can't help but grin back. "Yes, John. Everything I wanted and more."

John hums contentedly and takes another sip of tea. He's suddenly serious again.

"I'm glad I could give you what you wanted. But I have to ask-- is that something you think you'll be wanting... regularly?"

Sherlock mulls it over, swilling his tea in its cup and watching the stray loose leaves dance weightlessly at the bottom of the mug. Finally, he feels prepared to communicate what he's been experiencing.

"No. I think for now, that was a... it was a one-time thing."

"Okay. Good. Alright then. That's fine."

"Is it something _you_ want regularly?"

"To that degree? No. It was amazing, Sherlock, it really was, but it was a lot. Don't get the wrong idea--every second of it was bloody brilliant. But it took a lot out of me, and I think it took a lot out of you, too."

Sherlock nods and purses his lips. He feels compelled to explain it to John, to clarify his desires just a little more--not because John needs him to, but because he wants to.

"I think... I think, for me, this was... a catharsis."

"A catharsis?" John looks a bit flummoxed.

Sherlock nods. "When I met you, I'd had plenty of sexual experiences, just not penetrative sex." John nods; Sherlock had told him this up front, it's not surprising information to him. "But what I don't think I made clear is that the people I had those other experiences with... they weren't always good people, John. Now, when I was with them, I didn't do anything like what we do together; if anything, it was much tamer, just a bit of hair-pulling or rough oral or things of that nature." John's flushing red now, but he's not averting his gaze. "But most of them... most of the men I was with were closeted, or junkies, or some combination of the two. And I didn't feel good about the way I was when I was with them, the way I let them treat me. But because of how off-putting I am as a person-- _no, John, let me finish--_ I thought I could never deserve more. But then.. then I met you."

John swallows hard, and Sherlock sees that there are tears in his eyes. Finally, he speaks, but his voice is wavering. "But, Sherlock, in the beginning, I... I wasn't any better than they were. The... the closeted ones, I mean."

Sherlock shakes his head. "John, you were always better. Even when you weren't..." (he avoids using the word 'out,' since John still doesn't identify as gay, just 'Sherlock-sexual') "...weren't open about what we were, you were still kind to me. You were never cruel or rougher than I wanted. You took care of me, sexually and as a friend. You made me learn to love sex, and that had never, _ever_ happened to me in my previous experiences, it had always just been something I endured because my body demanded it. But you pushed me further, made me want _more,_ and it was because I trusted you, with all of me."

"But I... but I denied us, Sherlock. Every time someone implied that we were together, back before you fell, and back when I was married-- I denied it, I denied we ever _were,_ I denied _you._ And I can't..." He trails off, at a loss for words.

"John, even if you weren't public about what we were, I was complacent in that, too. And as time went on, we got... better. I know we almost lost it all along the way. But in the end, we got better."

John nods and gives him a reluctant, watery smile. "Yes, I suppose eventually we did."

Sherlock takes another deep breath. "And... these last few months... I finally realised that I could have the things that I want sexually with someone who actually loves me. And that had never occurred to me before. And... and it's not just today, John. You've been giving it to me for a while, every time we unwind, or even when we're just having regular sex, it's so much better than anything I've ever known before. I trust you completely, with every side of me, even the dark parts. And today, this... this was just a culmination of that. I wanted to give myself to you entirely. And let you know."

John leans forward and presses a kiss to Sherlock's forehead.

"Thank you. Thank you for telling me that, and... thank you for today. It meant a lot to me, too." He pauses, then continues, clearly slightly uncertain. "I was wondering... If you'd like... Would you want to hold on to my tags for me?"

Sherlock's suddenly aware that John's dog tags are still around his neck, lying cool and unassuming against his chest. He's momentarily taken by surprise, and he can't quite wrap his head around John's proposition.

"Not... Wait. I should clarify." John's clearly flustered. "Not as a power dynamics thing. I know we save the power exchange for designated times, I know that, I don't mean this as a proposal of anything permanent, I'm sorry, I should have framed that better..." John's turning tomato red now, clearly floundering, and Sherlock finally has mercy on him.

"No, no, it's quite alright. I understand what you mean. You're asking me to wear them simply as a symbol of trust."

"I...yes. Well, yes, that, exactly." John looks slightly taken aback that Sherlock's synthesized the information so concisely.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I'm not a detective by profession out of happenstance, John. I'm fairly adept at deducing your intentions at this point."

John grins and snickers and gives him a playful shove. "I know, you git. But still. You never cease to surprise me."

"Nor you, me. And to answer your question, yes, I'd very much like to hold on to your tags for a while. At least, as long as you'll have me."

Their eyes meet, and the silence stretches for a long moment, shattered only by the sound of the doorbell.

"Shit, that'll be the food."

_"Language,_ John," Sherlock snarks, giving him a wink as John trots out of the room to answer the door.

The rest of the night is decadent. John lets them eat in bed (which he almost _never_ does), and they devour the carryout straight from the boxes, passing them back and forth with an easy intimacy that comes from years of practice. Sherlock groans at John's bad puns and John smiles indulgently as Sherlock updates him on the results of his latest ash analysis. John laughs when Sherlock clumsily drops a prawn on John's naked thigh, but his laughter quickly devolves into gasps when Sherlock insists on licking up the resulting mess, and then they exchange slow, languid kisses as the food cools and is forgotten.

They're both far too spent to have sex again, but they lie kissing for the better part of an hour, hands chaste and reverent as they slide over each others' bodies. It's a stark contrast to their activities of the day, and Sherlock revels in how his body responds so differently yet so perfectly to this new kind of attention. He feels completely at peace.

And later, when the food is packed away and the lights are turned off and Sherlock is lying across John's chest listening to the sacred sound of his heart beating in the darkness, he's stricken with a profound thought.

"John?"

"Mmmm." John's voice is sleep-soaked and deep.

"This was the best birthday ever."

John chuckles, a low vibration that travels from his stomach to his mouth, and Sherlock twists his head to press a kiss against John's chest.

"I'm glad. And here most people only want a few pints and a piece of cake."

"Let _them_ eat cake. I prefer our slightly more unusual palate."

John laughs again and pulls Sherlock close. Sherlock closes his eyes. And sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Will hopefully have more series updates soon--they're less rough, more fluff, so if that's what you're into, you're in luck. Please leave comments and suggestions below!


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